


Abstract Art

by eadunne2



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky can cook, Domestic, Ex Sniper Bucky, Ex Soldier Steve, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NSFW Epilogue if you want it, still sort of superheros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eadunne2/pseuds/eadunne2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They survive almost a year of torture together, cells side by side, banter and teasing and stories. They keep each other alive. </p><p>Then everything changes. </p><p>They tell Bucky that Rogers's been killed. He tries to piece his life together, to move on. Steve owns an art store. He's given up looking. It's over.</p><p>Except it's really not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 6 is a NSFW epilogue, but the story wraps up completely in 5. 6 is just...a gift.

_2003_

 

One hundred and four. 

Steve has counted the days. 

He’s got all the time in the world, so he calculates the hours. Two thousand four hundred and ninety six. It feels like more. He tries for the minutes next, but they haven’t fed him in a while, and the lines of the bricks in the wall are already spinning slowly, so he closes his eyes and tries to sleep, though he can tell by the slanted light through the tiny window that it’s late in the day. 

Later, he’s not sure how much later, the noise in the next cage rouses him. He can’t see anything, but he hears the guy struggling, cussing, heard him all the way down the hall. “Fuckyou, youpieceofshit, letmego, getyourhandsoff of me, OFF!” then a crack and a thud and silence broken only by the padlock. 

“Fuckin’ firecracker, that one,” says the guard. 

“Won’t that be interesting,” the other says dryly.

Steve drifts off.

\--

The guy in the next cell is quiet for twelve days, almost thirteen. Just shy of three hundred hours. Steve thinks that’s an awful long time to be in your own head.

It’s a coughing attack that gets them both, actually. Gets Steve like it always get Steve, but after close to ten minutes of crawling to the toilet and hacking and spitting and then lying there on the cold cement, he hears the voice.

“Hey. You ok?”

Steve’s not worried. Since they’ve been giving him the shots he’s been healing much more quickly.

“Fine,” he croaks. “Are you?” This place is a shit hole on it’s best day. The guy must be freaking out.

There’s a dubious silence and then the voice says, “Really?”

Steve wipes his mouth on his sleeve and somehow manages to drag himself back to his cot. He has to inhale for a solid twenty seconds to be able to whisper, “What?”, but he gets it out. 

“Never mind.” The other boy sounds young too, and after the few minutes he needs to ensure he won’t pass out if he talks again he says, “How old are you?”

“17. You?”

“16.”

“Shit,” the voice says. 

“Rogers.”

“Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” Steve says through the crackling in his lungs, and he hears a smile in the other boy’s voice as he says, “Likewise.”

“So how’d you end up in here?”

It’s weird how he can feel the change in emotion even from behind the shared wall, but he feels the air freeze all the way from the other room, and Bucky doesn’t answer. Steve figures he’s got the right to his silence, and closes his eyes, trying not to let the rattling in his chest keep him awake. 

\--

They take Steve to the lab only once that week, and only for injections. The med tech that takes him handles him almost carefully right up until he shoves a circle of needles into Steve’s arm. As far as lab visits go, it’s a fucking delight. 

He sees the huddled shape of his neighbor as they drag him back to his cell, dark hair, pale skin, nothing else. 

Bucky doesn’t talk much. He seems smart but lots of things set him off, and there are entire days he won’t speak a word. Strangely, the longer they share a wall, the more those silent days bother Steve, but he keeps it to himself. 

He gets Bucky to talk the day the guard accidentally drops a receipt on the floor in front of Steve’s cell. When he’s sure the footsteps are gone, he creeps from his cot and reaches through the bars to pluck it from the floor.

“The hell you gonna do with that?”

Steve barely stifles yelp of surprise and lets the silence hang a little longer than usual, only partially out of spite for the day before when Bucky hadn’t respond to him all day, before he answers, ‘You’ll see.”

It’s been a long time since Steve’s seen anything but cement and bars and syringes and masked doctors, but he closes his eyes and let’s his mind drift, casting about for a good memory. 

There was a park a little ways from his mom’s apartment that he’d loved. The two of them visited often when Steve was small, before she got sick, and there was one particular tree they used to sit under for hours, where his mother would read aloud to him. He digs the pencil he’d stolen from the lab out of a seam underneath his cot and gets to work. 

“Holy crap,” Bucky whispers a while later.

Steve had kind of haphazardly reached his skinny arm between the bars and tossed the folded scrap of paper into the other cell then waited in surprisingly nervous silence for Bucky’s response.

“Where is this?” he asks softly.

“Park near my ma’s.”

“Where does she think you are?” It’s a good question, but Steve’s still not expecting it.

“She’s dead.”

The words slam into him like a truck. They do every time, and like with the coughing fit he has to take a few minutes to breathe. She’d gone the year before, slipped into sleep and never came back for him. 

For a long time he’d been angry. Steve’d been sick all his life, but she was always so strong. When she died he’d wanted to go with her; he’d stopped eating, stopped taking quite so much care. The hospital picked him up a week later. He still feels so alone that it aches in his chest like the muscle cramps he gets when he coughs too hard.

But then - “Me too,” Bucky whispers. “Awful lonely, huh?” 

It’s the most, both in number of words and emotional content, that he’s ever spoken, and Steve is surprised to find the knot behind his ribs loosen even as he says, “Yeah.”

\--

They take Bucky the next day. 

It’s only for a few hours, but when they come to get him it’s still early, still cool and dark, and Steve is actually soundly asleep for once when the door clangs open in the next room.

He hears Bucky startle awake. “Get off of me you fucker!” 

They’re quicker this time around, and Steve hears a sharp slap and one of the guards say, “Shut up. You open your mouth again, I’ll tase your ass,” and then it feels like the whole world falls silent. 

Steve doesn’t even try to go back to sleep, just sits with his back to their shared wall for the hours it takes.

When they come back, they’re dragging him. The thud of Bucky’s body hitting the floor makes Steve retch once before he rolls onto his stomach on the cold floor, face as close to the front corner of the cell as he can get and says, “Buck?”

He’s not actually expecting anything. Most of the time, coming back from the lab, he himself is incapable of much besides sleeping and pissing for a day or two. What Steve gets back is actually much worse.

Bucky lets out a snuffling whimper, like a kicked animal, and Steve immediately reaches a hand through the bars. “I’m here. I’m right here.” There’s a wet hiss and some shifting, and then freezing fingers pressed into his own. “You’re fine. I got you.” He curls his hand around the bigger one. “You’re ok, Buck.” It’s more to convince himself really.

They fall asleep.

\--

“Are there others?” 

“Yeah. It’s just us in this stretch, but I know there are at least two more hallways with a few people in each. I’d guess there’re eight of us all together.”

“What do they do to you?”

“Injections. Draw blood. Sometimes knock me out, but no weird scars or anything, so I dunno. You?”

Bucky’s tone is too tight when he says, “Same.” Then, “What do they want with us?”

“They say they’re US government...Can’t believe that’s true, but…”

He hears a thud, suspiciously like a fist hitting a wall.

“How’d they get you?” Bucky finally asks.

Steve’s on the floor next to his cot, doing push ups. It doesn’t make his arms any bigger, but he has to try. Sitting back on his haunches he says, “I volunteered.”

“What the fuck?”

“I was in the hospital,” he says, resuming his push ups. “They said-I could-help.” He has to pause every few words to have breath for both talking and exercise.

“Help?”

“That the work on my body-would be for a good-cause. They’d use what they learned-on me to help people.

The silence from the next room lightens, and Steve thinks he hears something close to fondness in Bucky’s voice when he says, “You dumb sonofabitch.”

“Guess I got had.” He’s not really expecting the amount of self loathing in his voice but makes no effort to cover it up. “Though to be honest, at the time, I don’t know that I would’ve cared.” He sighs and continues, “What about you?”

There is a practiced, active lack of answer from the next room.

Steve gives up on the push ups for the moment and crawls to his spot by the door, next to Bucky’s cell, and lies down. He’d expected Bucky to shut down, but he figures he can still keep the guy company. 

When Bucky speaks again, Steve can tell he’s lying against the wall too. “For what it’s worth, Rogers,” he says so quietly Steve almost misses it, “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

\--

“What’s this?” Bucky snorts. He must’ve found the gift, a drawing Steve had done of a buxom girl jumping out of a birthday cake. It’s cartoonish and silly, but Steve had to do something, and he loves making Bucky laugh. 

“Saw your chart in the lab.”

“And?”

“Happy birthday.”

So much of their friendship was Steve waiting in silence for Bucky to give him something, anything of himself, and for once he does, not with information or anecdotes, but with the tone of his voice, awed and grateful and genuine, not for the picture...for something else, something more. Steve doesn’t know what he did, but Bucky sure sounds grateful.

“Damn. Th-thanks, Rogers. This is...somethin’ else.” He sniffs then chuckles, and even though Steve feels like he might puke his guts out from the after effects of the lab visit, he laughs too.

\--

Steve wonders what Bucky looks like. Not all time time, he knows better than anyone not to set much stock in appearance, but he’s glimpsed enough of the high cheekbones and tousled hair that the artist in him wants to know more. Maybe another part of him wants to know more, too. 

\--

They’re together another two hundred and seven days before it all goes to hell. 

Two hundred and seven days, and if Steve’s being honest with himself, they’re the best and worst days of his entire life. For the first time, he’s not lonely. For the first time, he feels understood.

The injections, the electrocution it’s worth it. Only barely, but it is.

Later, Steve estimates they got about a hundred fifty good days all said and done. Days where neither of them were taken to the lab, or recovering, where all they had to do was lie in their dank little cells and talk. Laugh.

They tell stories and talk about school. They make plans for an unknown future, a someday when they’d get out of here, find an apartment somewhere, get jobs. Bucky thinks Steve should go to art school. Steve wants to go into the Army. Bucky doesn’t know what he wants to do yet. They argue, good-naturedly, about everything and to Steve it feels like coming home.

It’s the first and last time the guards take them together, at the same time, though Bucky and his guard are in front of Steve as they move through the bunker. The men are rougher with them than usual and one of them says something about hoping they get the job done before they’re shut down.

There’s a fork in the hallway and Steve’s guard begins hauling him in the opposite direction as Bucky. It feels different this time, and Steve’s actually afraid, but not for himself. This will all have been worth it if Bucky gets out alright, and if not...Well, Steve just hopes it’s both or neither of them in the end. Preferably both. Steve’s a bit of an optimist these days.

Bucky never does get around to telling Steve anything about his life, but he’s learned other things. Learned that Bucky’s smarter than anyone Steve’s ever met. He’s goofy and reckless and angers easy but forgives even easier. 

Steve’s never met anyone like him. He might love him a little, but there isn’t enough time. 

“Bucky! If we don’t make it out-”

“Shut the fuck up, Rogers!” he calls back cheerfully. “I’ll see you on the other side!”


	2. Chapter 2

~Present Day~

“Hey Mr. Rogers!”

“Mornin’ Thomas.” 

Steve can hear Sam giggling behind him, and he waits until Thomas has safely passed before muttering, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Why? I think we should get you some cardigans and some canvas shoes and a few animal puppets for your desk-ow!”

Steve punches him as lightly as possible, but it’s not really that light, and smiles sweetly at Sam, who’s rubbing his arm. 

“Yeah, yeah, bat those pretty lashes. I ain’t fooled.” 

“Mr. Rogers!” A paper bag and a giant cup of coffee appear on the counter.

Steve looks up from where he’s just finished printing the inventory checklist and hands it over to Sam before saying, “Katie! Good morning! Is that for me?”

She smiles up at him from under her choppy pink hair and nods. “And Mr. Wilson, if he’s being nice.”

“He’s not, particularly.”

“All for you then,” she says with a wink at Sam, and then she and her girlfriend follow Thomas to the classroom at the back of the store. 

The Picasso clock on the wall says he’s got seven minutes before class starts, and he and Sam talk through the day. Inventory is due by three, they were sent a new brand of paint Steve wants to try out before they order in bulk, only two classes today, and -

“Oh sweet and merciful lord, this is amazing,” Sam says through a mouthful of coffee cake. 

Steve swipes the paper-wrapped pastry from his hand and makes an embarrassing sound through a mouthful. “Oh holy shit. Wow.” The coffee he washes it down with is just as good. 

“This is from the new place next store, I think,” Sam says, and for once Steve finds himself thankful for their strange location, tucked around the corner from a busy street.

“I foresee drinking too damn much coffee in the very near future.”

“You already drink too damn much coffee, Mr. Rogers,” Keith says brightly as he enters, patch covered backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Language Keith,” Steve says gently, but laughs at his eyeroll and follows him to the back to begin class.

Steve has owned the art store here for almost five years. In that time he’s started a program of free art classes, expanded to both floors of the house they rent, hired Sam on as extra help, and made a bit of a name for himself in the community, though if anyone asks, he thinks it’s as much about his appearance as it is his skill.

His appearance. 

It’s been twelve years and some days he still wakes up surprised to see the image reflected in his mirror. After the experimentation, after his escape, he’d gone into the armed forces, but only lasted a few years before the bureaucratic bullshit combined with the dark eyes of the children that watched him blow up their towns forced him back stateside where he decided to go to art school in Chicago. 

He tried New York for a few days when he first got back but every corner reminded him of searching desperately for someone and never finding him, of cold cells, of heartbreak and what ifs, and he booked a red eye to Midway within the week. Working as a bouncer put him through college, saving his settlement money for the next big thing, though he had no idea what that looked like. 

The whole art store thing kind of just fell into place, and he wakes up everyday aching but grateful. 

By the end of day, he’s exhausted and antsy at the same time, and let’s Sam off an hour early so he can close up and go for a run. It takes no time at all to close, Sam is an obsessively neat and thorough employee (he really deserves a raise), and by the time the hour hand is on _Jeune Fille Endormie_ , he’s lacing up his running shoes. 

He does a ten mile loop of the area. It’s easy, but it feels good, feels right, to use his body like this. It’d be such a waste otherwise.

He makes it back to the store within the hour, and as he stumbles up to the front porch he tears his shirt off. It’s hot and humid today, and even though it was a light run the water in the air clings to him relentlessly. 

“Christ,” he hears from behind him, all snarl and attitude. “Don’t be modest, now.”

The guy is straddling a sleek black and silver motorcycle and pulling his helmet over his head. 

“What?”

“There might still be a person or two in the county that haven’t seen those pecs. Glad you thought to rectify that.” His voice is warm and rough, but terrible, pain translated into anger.

“Hey, buddy, it’s not like that, it’s just hot out-”

“I’m not your _buddy_ , big guy,” the man snarls, but before Steve can say anything more, the motorcycle is tearing out of the parking space and pulling into traffic leaving Steve panting on the doorstep.

He’s pouring sweat, but he’s suddenly freezing and he gets to the railing just in time to puke off the porch and into the yard. 

That voice...but no. It couldn’t be.

Steve closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose, trying desperately to lower his heart rate. He’d spent six months in New York, and then two more years from overseas, searching, and nothing turned up, not even with the help of his attorney and some very crafty almost-legal hackers.

He searches his mind for the mantra, and it takes a minute because he hasn’t had to use it in over a year.

“I am fine. It’s not my fault. Let it go.” 

\--

“Your trash is leaning on my dumpster.” It’s the guy on the motorcycle, who is incidentally the reason for Steve and Sam’s recent caffeine and baked goods overdose. 

The twelve year old boy in Steve wants to make a dirty joke, but the grown man and business owner staring at the equally grown and business-owning man across the counter is less than amused. 

“It’s an alley. It’s where we put trash.”

“Yeah. And your trash is leaning on my trash.” His voice is disturbingly cold considering the banality of the topic. 

Steve sincerely can’t believe this conversation is happening. There’s no way this guy is who he thought he might be if this is the petty crap he gets worked up about. 

“You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

He takes in the guy’s jeans and button up, and icy eyes, both in color and emotion, and shakes his head with a sigh. 

“Fine. Fine. I’ll move it.”

The guy blinks and Steve wonders if it’s surprise that flickers across his face, or something less savory. “For real?”

With a shrug Steve mutters, “If it’s such a big deal that you had to come all the way over here to yell at me, then yeah, fine, whatever makes you happy.” He strides through the house and out the back door and the man follows him, watching with arms folded as Steve grabs all six bags at once and tosses them to the other side of the alley. “Better?”

The guy narrows his eyes then nods curtly. 

“I’m Steve,” he calls as the other guy walks towards the back door of his own shop. “You guys have incredible coffee, by the way.”

Before he disappears inside the man shakes his head, eyebrows raised. Steve’s not sure what the expression is, but it isn’t hatred and for some reason it makes Steve feel like he’s won something.

“Steve? You got a sec? Question about billing for last month. Is-whoa. What’s with you?” Sam asks, standing in the doorway, but Steve just shakes his head as he realizes not-Bucky is gone.

“Nothing. What was your question?”

\--

“Hello?”

“Nick? It’s Steve Rogers.”

“Rogers. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering...I met a guy recently...he...he looks exactly like the guy I was locked up with. Is there any way to confirm that? Have there been any updates?”

“Looks like? I thought you never saw each other?”

“We didn’t, it’s just-”

“Steve, I promised you years ago that if anything ever came up, I would contact you.”

“I know, I know.”

“It might be wise to spend some time thinking about why you think you’re seeing him.”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers.”

\--

It’s a weird class. Jess, Katie’s girlfriend, just got out of the hospital the previous night after being admitted for complications due to an eating disorder, and is still resting at the group home where many of Steve’s students live. 

The kids are in a restless mood, crabby in the way people get when they’re reminded of how little control they have, so after a few minutes of grumpiness Steve grabs a box of drawing pencils, a pad of paper, and his tablet, and says, “Come on. Field trip.”

Followed by a gaggle of teenagers, Steve makes his way around the corner to the coffee shop and holds the door as the kids file in. “Get what you want. On me,” he adds, and sees a few faces light up. Orders of hot chocolate and cookies and lattes go in, until the line gets to Keith and he says, “I’m alright, thanks.”

“Keith, if you really don’t want anything that’s fine, but if you’re being polite, don’t. You don’t owe me anything. It makes me happy to be able to do this for you guys.”

“Buying us food makes you happy?” he says dubiously, and Steve barks a little laugh.

“I can’t fix your lives, Keith, no matter how much I want to. But if I can buy you a coffee and make you feel less shitty...yeah, that makes me happy.”

Keith smiles shyly up at him and says, “Language Mr. Rogers. And fine.” He turns to the cashier and says, “Oh hey, Mr. Barnes!” and Steve freezes.

The guy actually smiles, and says, “Hey Keith. What can I get for you?”

“Uhm...red eye and a bagel. Plain cream cheese. Please.”

Steve looks on in what he’s sure is completely unconcealed shock. Not only does this guy know Keith, and from the looks of it several other kids in the class, but he can smile. And not only can he smile, he smiles beautifully. 

So beautifully, in fact, that Barnes has to clear his throat for Steve to realize that all the kids are gone, chatting quietly at a table near the back of the shop, and he’s just staring. It somehow, amazingly, doesn’t register to Steve that Barnes is wearing long sleeves and a glove in this weather. That smile.

Blushing, he fishes his wallet out of his pocket. “Sorry. How do you guys know each other?”

Dryly, Barnes says, “I volunteer at the group home.” He pauses and Steve realizes he’s still staring. “Did you want something to drink, or should we bond? I can get Carl out here to take over. We can paint our nails and braid each other’s hair-”

“Christ, ok, a double shot latte.” He rolls his eyes at the guy, but gets the sense that behind the cold mask, Barnes might sort of be smiling. “What do I owe ya?” 

“Fifty, even,” the guy says and Steve shakes his head. 

“No way, there’re like ten of us. You must’ve missed-”

“Buddy. Fifty.” He’s speaking slowly, incredulously, like he doesn’t believe Steve could possibly exist, so Steve hands over the bills and waits at the end of the counter until each of the kids has come to collect their food and drink. As Barnes slides Steve’s latte over the counter he extends a hand and says, “James Barnes.”

Steve smiles more broadly than is perhaps appropriate when he says, “Steve Rogers. Pleasure.” 

“Doubt it,” James scoffs, and just like that, things are back to normal.

Steve finds a chair, pulls it up at the corner of the table the kids have commandeered, and stacks the materials at the center. He’s not really sure how to do this, or if he even wants to, but it feels important somehow, like maybe he can make the shit that happened mean something if it helps someone. 

Steepling his chin on his fingers he says, “So. A long time ago, I went through some shit.”

“Told you,” Tyjuan says to Thomas. In response to Steve’s quirked eyebrow Thomas explains, “We wondered if you were…” he gestures to the group. “...Like us.” 

Steve smiles and he can feel the sadness at the corners of it, but opts for genuine over genial, and continues. “Things were dark for a long time. Muddy and grey and harsh, and for a while, my whole world felt like that. Then one of my teachers introduced me to Afremov.” He does a quick google search on the tablet and passes it around. “He’s all light and color and it made me feel better. Makes me feel better. Anyway. Today’s assignment is to look at some Afremov, and then draw something that makes you happy and we’ll give ‘em to Jess. Let her know we’re sending her good thoughts.”

“Jesus christ, you’re optimistic,” comes the voice from over his shoulder.

“That’s a good thing, don’t you think, Mr. Barnes?” Kyla asks as she grabs a pencil. 

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Wouldn’t it be better to be realistic?”

“Can it be both?” Chris interjects, and they all turn to look at him. He’s small and quiet and dark-skinned, with a quiet confidence that speaks of someone who’s been through more than their share in too short a time. “I mean, life is awful sometimes, but then some days your friend gets out of the hospital and your teacher buys you coffee and that feels pretty good, right?”

Steve wouldn’t put it past Barnes to shut down even this most amazing of children, but when he glances up, there’s a softness in the other man’s eyes and Steve watches in awe as he pushes his hair back and says, “Yeah. You’re right.”   
His voice is too familiar, and Steve feels the color draining from his face but it’s not like he can say, “Hey, were we locked together in a basement and tortured a decade ago?” so he excuses himself to the bathroom and waits to come back until he can speak without wanting to vomit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeune Fille Endormie  
> http://pictify.com/457827/pablo-picasso-jeune-fille-endormie-1935-oil-on-canvas-cubism


	3. Chapter 3

Chris delivers the invitation to him at the end of a class as all the other students are filing out of the room, eyes downturned, paper offered in upturned palm.

“Mr. Rogers?”

“What’s up, Chris?”

“Here,” he says, shoves the envelope into Steve’s hand, and leaves.

It’s an invitation to Chris’s birthday party. Without even looking at the date, Steve bounds out of the room and out the door in time to yell, “Chris!” The boy turns around, startled, then grins. “I’ll be there.”

\--

The woman who runs the house, Ms. May the kids call her, is exorbitantly enthused to have someone as tall and strong as Steve around. She immediately puts him to work setting up tables and carrying cases of soda, and all the while there are children and teenagers tagging along next to him, behind him, underfoot, and it’s good. 

He’s carrying a few boxes out to the trash next to the house when he hears a rustling noise in the back yard. It’s quiet but purposeful, someone messing with the tables he’d just set up, and he knows none of the kids are allowed out back until dinner. Walking with military-learned silence, Steve creeps around the house to see-

“James, there you are!”

“Hey Ms. May. Sorry. I just got back from work-”

“Don’t be silly, boy. No excuse needed.”

Barnes continues with a smile. “-But I picked up the tablecloths on the way. We’re all set.” Steve watches him glance around in surprise. “You’ve been busy. Looks great.” He gestures to the table and the lights strung up overhead.

"Steve’s here, he’s been a great help.”

“The art teacher?” Barnes’s voice goes cool suddenly, and May hears it too. 

“Yes, and don’t you go runnin’ off, you hear me? He’s a good man, and he loves these kids. Chris begged me to let him come, so don’t you go driving him away.”

“I wouldn’t-” 

May slaps him on the arm and interrupts, “Yes you would.” Her voice softens and she smoothes a hand over the patch of arm she’d smacked. “You know how you get, and I understand James, but…” She pauses, adjusting his sleeve then says, “You might want to give him a chance.”

James stares at her for a full minute before he replies, “Yes ma’am.”

She smiles warmly at him and turns back to the house so quickly her braids almost smack him in the face. “Good man. Now get cleaned up, dinner’s in an hour.”

Sure enough an hour later sixteen kids, two adults, three cats, and one dog are stuffed in the backyard at tables straining under the weight of the food. Chris looks radiantly happy and handsome in his little button up t-shirt and bowtie. Before they eat, he stands to give the prayer.

“Dear God, thank you for this day. Thank you for my friends, and for Ms. May and Mr. Barnes and Mr. Rogers. Thank you because even though we all missed out on our first family, you gave us another bigger and better one, and I really appreciate it. Bless the food, bless the people, thanks for a thirteenth year. Amen.” 

“Amen,” rumbles across the group.

Steve’s not a particularly religious guy but the prayer hits home, and he’s grateful that the kids are distracted by the free-for-all for food because he has to blink several times to ensure he won’t cry in the middle of dinner. He almost gets away with it, too, but the empty chair next to him is suddenly full of James Barnes whose face changes, softens, and in a moment of surprising respect, averts his eyes to chat with the kid next to him so Steve can get it together. 

The rest of the meal goes relatively smoothly. Smoothly because they have plenty of food, Chris is freakin’ glowing with happiness, and the kids are hilarious. Relatively because sitting next to someone as attractive as James Barnes would be a mindfuck and a half even if Steve wasn’t convinced Barnes was a guy he’d fallen in love with over a decade ago and never really left behind.

But he gets through it. Chris blows out his candles, a painfully dissonant and joyful rendition of Happy Birthday rolls out into the dusk, and as the littlest ones file up to bed, he opens his gifts.

He gets around to Steve’s towards the end. It’s a short graphic novel with Chris as the hero, unmasked, with a cape, and carrying a Sword of Justice. It’s a silly cartoon but drawn with love and Chris’s face lights up as he flips through it. 

“Thank you!” the boy says breathlessly.

“You’re welcome Chris. You’re kind of a superhero already, though. I just gave you a costume.”

One of those giggles that’s just happiness which refuses to stay contained in the body escapes Chris’s mouth and Steve smiles so hard his cheeks start hurting. 

“Look Mr. Barnes!” The kid holds up Steve’s comic, and Barnes takes it with reverence, which does crazy things to Steve’s heart rate. Steve watches him turn the pages, watches the barely concealed smile, fond and proud of tiny cartoon Chris saving the world, and it messes with him so badly he turns away and dedicates himself to trying to taste his slice of birthday cake.

The comic is short, maybe 5 pages in length, Steve only had a week to complete it, but it ends sweetly, with Chris and his puppy sidekick sprawled beneath a tree, sharing a sandwich and laughing. Steve likes it because it’s realistic, practical. Even if Chris can’t really fly or carry a sword or fight off combatants (and after his experience in the military, Steve doesn’t want that for him anyway), he can sit under a tree in the park, eat his lunch, and reflect on how he is, truly, a remarkable boy. 

For some reason, it matters to Steve what Barnes thinks of the gift, so as he turns the last page Steve drags his eyes away from where he’s peeling off the top layer of frosting with his fork, and up to Barnes face, and then several things happen in quick succession.

Barnes flips to the last page and his smile freezes, then his face goes ashen. It feels like a punch to Steve’s gut and he can’t understand it, any of it, not the look on Barnes’s face, not the spectrum of feelings he keeps finding in himself, not the familiarity, not the loneliness that gets better when Barnes smiles and worse when he leaves. 

Which he does.

With a breathless, “Happy Birthday, buddy,” he hands the comic back to Chris and leaps up, practically running around the side of the house towards the front.

“What was that about?” Chris asks, puzzled but unoffended, and Steve does his best to smile and act like everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. _I am fine. I am fine. I am-_

“Oh man, Mr. Barnes dropped his wallet,” Chris is saying, and he leans down to pick it up, but not before Chris sees it, a slip of receipt paper tucked into a fold, faded and crumpled to fuck, blank side up, and a shaky pencil sketch of a tree, a hill, light clouds and an autumn sun and Steve grabs the wallet from the ground before Chris ever gets to it and hops up saying, “I’ll go run it out to him.”

He darts along the fence that runs the length of the property and out onto the sidewalk, looking left and right frantically for the hunched figure walking with purpose along the street. 

“James!” Steve shouts as he sees him. “Wait!”

Barnes’s body tenses up and he actually starts walking faster but Steve picks up his pace again, breathless even though this physical activity is nothing at all. It looks like Barnes might make it around the corner before Steve gets to him, so he breaks into an outright sprint and yells, “Please! Bucky!”

It’s effective, and it also breaks the world apart, because Bucky turns around then, faces him, and he looks awful: wide eyes rimmed with red, breath coming too quickly. Steve skids to a stop and the look on Barnes’s face makes him want to embrace him, hold him close, but when he reaches out the other man flinches away and for the second time that night Steve feels it viscerally, a blow the chest.

His voice is gravelly. “What did you call me?”

“Bucky, it’s me, I-” He holds out the wallet.

Snatching the wallet from Steve’s fingers, Barnes says, “Fuck you. Who are you?” Fear creeps into his eyes, his voice, as he says, “Did they send you?” He adjusts his stance in a way that tells Steve he’s about to transition from pulling emotional punches to real ones. 

Holding up his hands and very nearly weeping he says, “No! I drew that picture for you! The one in your wallet. I told you about the park by my Ma’s, and that she was dead, and you said ‘me too’ and it was the first time in my entire life I didn’t feel completely alone.”

Steve’s pretty sure he’s crying for real now, but he doesn’t care, just gasps out, “Please.”

Bucky lowers his fists. “Rogers?” His body does this weird thing where he lurches forward, arms moving outward as if to hug Steve, and his face looks fifteen years younger, but he stops himself and if Steve wasn’t crying before, he is now.

All Steve’s got for him is a nod at this point, but he keeps staring, trying to memorize every piece of him. He realizes that before now he’d been trying not to observe the guy too closely, like he’d be cheating on the real Bucky if this guy turned out to be a fake. Or maybe it was because he’d known that if he looked at Barnes too closely, he’d see exactly what he wanted to see, and have to face the truth.

But here they were, staring at each other, and Bucky’s face is guarded, but he’s smiling, though Steve’s pretty sure he sees the other man’s lip tremble for a moment before he says, “How-? Where-?”

“I thought you were dead,” Steve chokes out.

“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky replies, and it’s perfect, exactly as it should be, and Steve barks a laugh before saying, “I was.”

“Growth spurt, huh?” The corner of his mouth twitches up. That mouth. 

“Nah. Gift from our mutual friends. All those injections had to lead somewhere.”

The seriousness and fury that settles on Bucky’s face is a little terrifying, though Steve’s pretty sure it’s not aimed at him. “That last day,” he guesses, correctly.

“Yeah. But it’s fine. I- What about you?”

“What about me what?” He’s still standing there, gripping his wallet, but Steve senses the change in the air just like all those years ago when he could feel Bucky going cold on the other side of the cell wall. 

“What happened?”

As soon as it’s out of his mouth Steve regrets it, not because he doesn’t want to know, but because he doesn’t want to hurt Bucky any further and recounting those memories is always awful, and Bucky looks like he’s feeling the same.

“I’m sorry, forget it, I didn’t mean-”

“Stay away from me.” The tone is sterile, cold. Ice. 

“What? No, please, Bucky, I looked for you everywhere, don’t-”

“Well here I am. Now leave me alone.”

Steve’s at a complete loss, so he just stands there, body language completely open and completely defeated as Bucky tucks his wallet away and starts down the street again. Just before he turns the corner he looks back over his shoulder and says, “How did you recognize me?” 

It’s not warm, but it’s not ice either. Steve starts to say the receipt drawing, the comic, but no, that’s not right. He shrugs. Answers with the truth. “I’ll never forget your voice.”

The mask on Bucky’s face cracks open and a noise, surprised and pained, escapes him before he seals the expression again and walks away.

\--

Every night for the next week Steve dreams about the day he escaped. He remembers everything clearly. The worst part is, he can’t even call it a nightmare, because it’s a memory.

He remembers trying to tell Bucky everything he fears he’s going to spend the rest of his life burying deeply inside himself. He remembers being dragged into a lab he’s never (doesn’t remember having) been in before, being strapped down, remembers light and pain and fuses blowing around the room. Remembers the the pod drifting open and his body falling to the floor. Remembers how the world looked smaller, how his arms didn’t rest against his sides the same as before. 

Remembers hearing Bucky scream. Remembers seeing red. Remembers taking out the lab techs and the doctor in charge of the project before breaking down a door and racing down the hall, pulling the cell doors open and busting the locks as he went. 

He searched the whole floor. Opened nine cells, searched all four labs, seven storage closets and when there were no more places to search he ran up the stairs behind the other escapees, out into the street, into the waiting arms of the FBI. 

They sedated him. They tried to get him to come quietly but Steve hadn’t believed them when they said they were there to help, that the man who had taken them was doing so without the blessing of the City of New York or the United States Government. 

They finally took his statement and let him out of the hospital. There was nothing else to be done. They had no news of Bucky. There were no bodies recovered.

Steve knows he testified in the court case against the “doctor” who’d held them, but he doesn’t remember the trial. He vaguely remembers Nick Fury, who worked with the prosecution, asking and answering questions. Nick believed him when Steve said there had been another man there, but without a real name or physical description, there wasn’t much to go on, though Nick said he’d keep looking. 

Steve never really stopped looking, but somewhere along the way, around the time he moved to Chicago, he tried to let it go. He couldn’t help people if he was living in the past. And they never did find a body, and Bucky was the most hard-headed of all the stubborn fuckers Steve had ever met, including his stint in the Army, so he tried to have hope despite the painful nature of that fickle emotion.

There was nothing to be gained from worrying. He knew that. 

Didn’t help much.

\--

Steve had been sure that Bucky would disappear again, but he didn’t. He kept working at Daily Grind, kept helping out at the group home. Kept pretending Steve was invisible, or like a spider that lives on the porch, to be tolerated, but completely unwelcome.

He ignores Steve thoroughly. It’s probably better that way. 

Right?

Thanks to the relentless nightmares, Steve barely sleeps. After a week of tossing and turning, he starts going for walks instead, strolling through the city for hours and falling into bed, exhausted, as the sun creeps over the horizon. Sam starts opening, “Go the fuck to sleep Rogers. I’ll open. Your first class is at noon”, and that becomes their new schedule. Sam really is the best employee. 

It was on one such stroll that he picked up his second job. 

It was a little after two in the morning. Steve loved the smell of the air, the stillness of the city, the quiet like a held breath, like it, too, was taking a respite from it’s hectic pace. 

“Kurt, no.” The woman’s voice was serious and firm, but there was a tremor of nervousness there, and Steve immediately moved more quickly.

“Come on, baby.”

“I don’t want to.”

They were probably a half mile away still, but Steve could hear them clear as day. He took off at a run.

“Why you lookin’ so pretty like this if you don’t want me? You’re askin’ for it baby.”

Steve rounds the corner to see the woman pressed against the brick, hands on the guy’s chest as he leans in to kiss her, bracing.

“She said no, buddy.”

The guy spun around. “The fuck are you?”

Steve ignores him, turning instead to the woman and asking, “Would you like me to walk you home?” He smiles at her in what he hopes is an unintimidating manner and she gives him a shaky smile in return, message received. Darting out from behind the man, she walks past him and says, “I’m alright, I live around the corner.” Glancing over her shoulder she adds, “You got him?”

Steve’s grin spreads, less friendly this time. “Yes ma’am, I do.”

He listens, makes sure she’s down the street. He takes five steady, even breaths through his nose. He’s not trying to be brutal, after all. 

He lays the guy out with one hit, and after that night, he starts looking for more.

\--

“Alright, who’s next?”

“Question.”

“Yes, Aaliyah.”

“Why did you ask us to choose a piece that we love? Why not our favorite?”

The air shifts, in and around the room. Steve notices, and maybe the kids do too. 

“I think if you have one favorite piece of art, you’re not thinking very hard.”

Aaliyah looks a little taken aback, but Keith sits forward. “Like if you’re having a good day or a bad day, you want to listen to different music.”

“Plus, opinion changes over time,” Kyla adds. 

Looking thoughtful, Aaliyah nods. “Oh. Can I go next?”

Steve smiles broadly at her. “Of course.”

She stands and pulls up her picture on Steve’s laptop, which is hooked to a projector. “My painting that I love right now is Enchanting Keys, by Monica Stewart (1).”

The class sits in silence for a long moment before Kyla says, “I like that, too.”

“Why do you like it, Aaliyah?”

The kids know they have to give real answers, “It’s pretty” doesn’t count. The explanation Aaliyah gives is pretty great, though.

“I like that the subjects are black, like me, and classy in a way that white artists don’t really portray. I like that you can tell it’s not the performance of their song. It’s a rehearsal. They’re engaged in the music, in each other.” She pauses and Steve take notice of how attentive each student is. He’s so taken with the kids that he misses the shadow at the door. 

“I like how warm the colors, sorry the palette, is, and the blue and green in the plant stand out.”

Thomas is sitting forward in his seat. “Can I go next?”

“Did you have anything else you wanted to add, Aaliyah?”

She shakes her head and he tells her to print out the image, and while Thomas is loading his choice, she tapes it to the wall. 

Thomas is small for sixteen, and Steve empathizes with him as he stands on the balls of his feet to appear taller as he says, “My painting is Picasso’s The Tragedy.”

“Oh how sad,” Elena says softly. She’s old for her thirteen years, but her eyes go soft and round and weepy as she stares at the screen. 

“Yes,” Thomas agrees. “But look, there’s more to it. I like the palette, all the blue, but I like the subjects more. I like the way the parents aren’t touching, but the kid is trying to comfort them. I like that they’re all facing inwards, towards each other, not running away. I like that the whole painting is just them, not background or foreground focus, just people. And Elena, this painting breaks your heart yes? But it’s so early in Picasso’s career. He goes on to paint shapes and colors and thoughts and revolutions. What do you think, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve blinks from where he’s been sitting, smiling, arms folded, ankles crossed, and considers for a moment before saying, “I think it’s important to think of tragedies as beginnings as well as endings.”

Thomas nods in emphatic satisfaction. “Exactly.” 

He hits print, then moves out of the way as Jess stands. The kids have all been wonderful in supporting Jess in her recovery, and they smile encouragingly at her as she loads her image and returns the grin then nods a greeting to the door. 

Steve turns to see Bucky leaning against the doorframe, and thank god Jess starts talking. 

“I chose this piece, Arcadia by Loui Jover. I love his work, in general.”

“Why?” Steve manages to ask, because he’s still a teacher whether he’s having a heart attack or not. 

“Almost all his stuff is on newspaper-y background, and it’s a lot of black ink. I like that the black and grey highlights the colors he does choose to use, but I also like that the tone is so...dreary.”

“How come?” Elena murmurs, surprised, and Steve’s glad it’s her question and not anyone else’s because it could have been read as confrontational, but Elena’s so sweet. 

“I just... sometimes I like art that looks how I feel. Like what Keith said about listening to music. “

“Good,” Steve says. “What else?”

She shrugs. “She looks angry. Scared. But she’s not giving up. I like that. I’m not giving up.” 

Katie springs from her chair and embraces Jess, and the kids murmur things like, “Cool” and “I like that too.” Things are settling down when Chris turns over his shoulder and says, “Mr. Rogers, do you have a piece you could show us?”

It gives Steve an idea, and he prays it doesn’t backfire. He’s not even sure what he’s hoping to achieve by it, just that if he doesn’t do _something_ and soon he’s going to lose what’s left of his mind. Hopping up, he types in the name then asks, still staring resolutely at the screen, “Mr. Barnes. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

There’s a scattering of, “Oh hey Mr. Barnes” as he says, “Just swinging by to talk to the kids. I won’t be at the house tonight, wanted to make sure everyone’s ok.”

Elena gets up and settles next to him, putting her head on his shoulder, and Steve absolutely does not watch as Bucky winds his arm protectively around her skinny shoulders. Chris goes over after a moment, crossing his legs in the chair next to them.

“You know you can take a day off of babysitting us if you need,” Keith says, and Bucky tisks. 

“It’s not babysitting. I like you guys. And I’ll take a day off if I need, but not today.”

Steve sees the shy smile on Keith’s face, surprised, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to give a shit, and he looks up and notices Bucky’s seen the same. 

Steve has no idea what to do. Bucky told him to stay away, and he’s trying. But Bucky came _here_ , he knew Steve would be here too, and the look on his face isn’t hatred or fear, it looks kind and sad and almost pleading.

“Wow! Cool. What painting is that?” Katie asks as the image loads, and Steve is yanked from his head. 

“The Sun, by Edvard Munch.” (4)

“Why do you like it, Mr. Rogers?” Bucky asks, a mocking lilt to his voice, but not unkind. Some of the kids snicker, but they turn back to him immediately, genuinely curious of his answer.

Steve sighs and turns to look at the image where it’s projected on the screen and tries to be articulate despite his sleep deprivation and existential crisis.

“On a superficial level, I like the way the sun seems to be reaching out, embracing the viewer. I like the streaks of red in the rays. The way it’s pieced together, like a brick wall or a patchwork quilt is interesting, and the way the sun spills over the scene is beautiful.” He turns back to the room and smiles at the students before glancing to Bucky. “In terms of symbolism though...the whole image is overwhelming, right? Like life. Too much too soon. And outside of the rays, it’s grey, monochromatic, but with the sun, with that one addition, suddenly parts of the darkness become light, parts of the shadow become color.” He pauses to scan the room and the kids look a mixture of delighted and dazed. “It reminds me of a time in my life with a lot of shadow, and it could’ve been a whole hell of a lot worse, except I was lucky enough to have a light, too, a sun, and he turned even the darkest of it into color.”

There’s a knock on the door and Sam pokes his head in. “Ladies and gents, that’s time for today. Ms. May may also have called to remind you absolutely no stopping at the corner store, it’s a school night, and to go straight home. I may or may not be texting her you’re leaving right this very minute, so…”

Steve chuckles as the kids scramble to collect their things, a cacophony of “Bye!” and “See you later!” swirling around the room, and then it’s empty and quiet and Steve and Bucky are left alone in the classroom.

Steve turns away from him, unable to bear the weight of his gaze, and prints out his own image to tape to the wall. 

“You really mean that?” Bucky says.

He doesn’t need to ask what Bucky’s talking about. “Of course.” He spins away from the wall to say again with emphasis, “Of course.” 

Bucky gets to his feet and gazes at Steve for a long moment, mouth working with some unnamed emotion. His eyes are so beautiful, Steve observes, clear and bright and gray-almost-blue. Steve wonders if he could paint those eyes, if he’d ever be able to do them justice. 

“Can we just talk?” Steve says softly. “I just...I looked for you everywhere. For years. Are you ok?”

As close to the vest as Bucky plays things, he still slips up every once in awhile, and Steve makes it his personal mission to catch every glimmer of emotion and remember it.

“I’m fine,” he says. He sounds almost angry, but he doesn’t step back when Steve steps forward. “You?”

“Fine,” Steve spits out and Bucky, for a moment, almost smiles. 

“You always were a terrible liar.”

“Buck-” 

As if he finally catches up, Bucky steps back sharply and says, “My name is James Barnes. And I meant what I said before.”

“I stayed away!” Steve cries. “I’m trying to respect your wishes even though it’s fucking killing me, and _you’re_ the one that came _here_!” He inhales, trying to calm down, but he’s so confused and tired he’s practically hyperventilating. “Please Bucky-sorry, James...Fuck!” The name sounds all wrong. It’s not right, nothing is right and he slams his fist into the wall and hears crumpling drywall.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Bucky say, voice quivering only a little. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Rogers?” comes Sam’s voice from the other room, and by the time he gets to the back, Bucky’s gone.

1.http://www.art.com/products/p10206310-sa-i820351/monica-stewart-enchanting-keys.htm?sOrig=CAT&sOrigID=1909&dimVals=1909&ui=029367915D8C48D39FB5CD070BDE6904

2.http://www.wikiart.org/en/pablo-picasso/the-tragedy-1903

(3) http://www.allposters.com/-sp/Arcadia-Posters_i13163983_.htm 

(4)http://www.edvardmunch.org/the-sun.jsp

\--

 

There are three of them. Hulking, one even bigger than Steve, and he welcomes the challenge. It’s all strategy. He might have been an unhappy soldier, but he was a good one. 

He’s followed them for a few nights already. They’ve tried to mug a handful of people but someone more visible than Steve has intervened each time, a police siren here, a late-night store owner there, but tonight he finally stepped out of the shadows. He’s been listening to them talk, Googling their names. Two have already served time for assault and it hasn’t changed their patterns one bit. One hasn’t been caught, but from their conversation the past three nights Steve has gathered the guy is far from innocent.

He takes out the big one first, a blow to the solar plexus, a knee to the balls, a sharp rap to the back of the head and he crumples. Steve catches his body as he falls, silent, and the other two don’t notice until he uses their collars to bash their heads together. They go down easy. He zipties them to the bus stop bench, hands and feet, makes a quick anonymous call to the police, and heads home. 

He’s been at it almost a month, and it helps. He’s tired more often; The kids ask every now and then if he’s sick, but he’s getting to work on time, classes are going well, he watches football with Sam every week. He’s trying to keep it together, and for the most part, it’s working. 

The weird part (for Steve; to anyone else, the whole fuckin’ thing would be weird as hell) about this “night shift” is that about every third job, he finds that someone like him, off the books and under the table, has already dealt with whoever he’s been tailing before he gets there. Once it was a guy cuffed to a picnic table, and more than a few times the perps are just ducking into cop cars as he arrives. It’s great, but strange. He doesn’t mind, he just wishes he knew who was helping him. 

He finds out a week later when he takes on a guy who’s been mugging women as they leave a small club a few miles east of the store. As far as Steve’s seen, the guy is armed but works alone, and only within a few block vicinity, so he’s not surprised to see the suspect go after a young woman a few blocks from where Steve’s been waiting. The surprise is how, after Steve knocks the dude unconscious and the girl runs off, someone whacks him in the arm with what feels like a tire iron. 

Spinning around, Steve grabs the weapon, but another guy pops out of nowhere and puts a gun to Steve’s head. 

He freezes. 

There are only a few ways it could play out, and the options slim down as tire iron guy pulls out a gun too. “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” the guy behind him says. “The girls are fine. We just need a little something from them before they go.” 

Steve doesn’t answer, doesn't move, breathes in deeply, slowly.

“The fuck’s the matter with you? You deaf?” The guy shakes him a Steve just smiles and waits, 3-2-1…

He drops to his knees and reaches up, breaking the wrists of each man’s gun hand, and metal goes clattering to the street. Steve spins up and ducks under one right hook, but the second catches him nicely in the face. He dispatches the next set of blows quickly and evenly, then uses the guns to knock each guy unconscious, but he without a doubt would have been shot by the fourth man standing in the shadows if something hadn’t dropped from a fire escape, collapsing the last man to his knees. Steve stumbles in surprise more than anything else before the stranger knocks the fourth man out too.

Drop-in guy is dressed entirely in black, and grabs some zipties from Steve’s pocket to help restrain the last of them. Steve’s almost about to thank him and walk away to nurse his bloody lip when the guy pulls out his cell and dials. “I’d like to report a mugging.”

“Bucky?”

Finally turning and facing Steve, Bucky rolls his eyes and completes the call before locking his phone and saying, “You know, sometimes I think you like getting punched.”

Steve shrugs defensively. “I had him on the ropes.” He doesn’t want to see Bucky here, doesn’t want to think that maybe he’s the person who’s been helping Steve on these night missions, restraining or reporting the really bad ones before Steve even gets there. The shrug hurts his bruised arm like a bitch, and Steve has to spit out some blood from his busted lip before he can speak again. He needs to get out of here. “Whatever. Have a good night Buc - James.” 

He’s halfway down the alley when he hears Bucky say, “Goddamn it, man. Wait a second.” Steve pauses and listens to the footsteps close in before Bucky’s face appears in front of him. 

“You look like shit,” he says.

“I should make you buy me a drink first, you sweet talker.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You look thin. Tired.”

Surprise is the predominant emotion, but secondary to that is resentment. Bucky’s the fucking reason he looks like shit, and he’s barely holding it together as it is, so he sidesteps the man in black leather and continues on his way without a word. 

“Steve.”

Goosebumps break out across his skin. Steve thinks Bucky’s voice shakes just a little, but maybe that’s wishful thinking. Regardless, though, that’s the first time Bucky’s _ever_ called him Steve and it’s causing pain he’s pretty sure is unrelated to the injuries.

“What,” he whispers.

“It’s not...this isn’t because of me?”

“What, the crime fighting?” Steve turns back to him with a bitter laugh. “No. Not at all. The sleepless nights?” He tilts his head to the side a pulls back a corner of his mouth.”Well, who’s to say?”

“Why?” Bucky’s face is partly hidden in shadow but Steve can still see the shine of the streetlight on the dampness of his lips. It’s a problem.

Even if he weren’t a rigorously honest person, there was no way for him to lie about this one, so even though it sends his heart racing, Steve answers, “Because you were my first and only friend for half my goddamn life, and even trapped and tortured in a basement, it was worth it because you were there. I thought you were dead, except for when I didn’t, which was worse. And then I find you and you tell me to leave you alone?” He can feel his voice rising, incredulous and filled with hollow humor. “Stay away?” He deflates. “I can’t Bucky. James. Sorry.”

The sound of sirens is growing louder, and Bucky stares impassively for only a moment longer before saying, “Can you run?” Steve ducks his head in a nod and Bucky waves him along. “Then come on.”

Bucky takes off at a dead sprint, and Steve is at his heels. They take the street level for only a few blocks before Bucky swings up to a fire escape and bounds up to the roof. Steve follows.

Across roofs and up stairs, through parks and parking lots and yards. They’re on the move for almost thirty minutes, but by the time Bucky slows his pace and hops the fence into a backyard, Steve is grinning from ear to ear. 

“The hell are you looking so damn happy about?” Bucky murmurs, fishing around for his keys. 

Steve shrugs, still smiling. “That was fun.” 

There’s an eyeroll in Bucky’s reaction, but there’s a soft smile too, and Steve counts it as a win. 

The two flights of stairs to a dark green door give him time to breathe, and to realize that not only is he not dead, he’s here, with Bucky, who is at this very moment inviting him into...his apartment?

“Whoa,” Steve says. 

The apartment is incredible. It could probably be marketed as a studio, but it would be a drastic undersell. It’s one large room, with what is probably a bathroom at the far end, but the ceilings are vaulted, and tall windows let in the glow of the city night. Black granite countertops and white walls, and everything else is wood, spacious and warm. There’s no bed, just a pile of quilts on the floor, and Steve understands immediately. Bucky catches him looking.

“When I can’t sleep I lay out on my balcony. Bed’s too soft,” Steve mutters and Bucky nods, looking strangely gratified. “This place is great. How long have you been here?”

“Maybe four years?” Bucky says as he grabs some clothes from a dresser along the wall and disappears into the bathroom. 

“Where were you before that?”

There’s a silence, then, “All over the place.” It’s purposely vague, and Steve leaves it alone. When Bucky finally comes out, he’s dressed more casually, jeans and a sweater, with a glove on his left hand, and grabs a beer for both of them from the fridge.

The cold stings his lip, and Bucky notices the wince. “You want something for that?”

“Nah. The shit they gave me makes me heal faster. Wet paper towel’ll do.”

“How much faster?” Bucky asks carefully as he runs a rag under the tap and tosses it to Steve. 

“It’ll be gone by morning.”

“What else?”

Steve sighs heavily and glances down at his beer. “You got something stronger?”

Understanding is clear on Bucky’s face, and he digs around in a cabinet above the fridge, withdrawing a handle of whiskey.  
“Probably won’t even be able to feel it,” Steve says dryly.

“Me neither.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Side effect. My metabolism is fast as hell.” He fills a tumbler almost to the brim with rose-honey colored liquid and hands it to Steve who drains about half and leans on the counter. 

“I didn’t look like this when I went in,” Steve says. Bucky actually glances up from pouring his own and Steve is surprised by the warmth in his look. “I was skinny. Little. Sick all the time. I think the injections were all leading up to it, but it wasn’t until the last day that this,” and here he sweeps his hand in a dismissive encompassing of his body, “happened.”

Bucky looks at him, all of him, for a moment before saying, “How did you get out?”

Steve drains the rest of the whiskey in one go. “I killed them.”

“The scientists?” Bucky sounds shocked but also relieved and Steve doesn’t know what to do with that.

“The scientists, the lab techs...I panicked. I heard you scream and I-” His voice just stops, entirely without his permission and he clears his throat, surprised and a little embarrassed. “Anyway.”

Taking pity on him, Bucky says, “So they turned you into a swimsuit model, sped up your healing, you’re clearly very physically capable…..what else?”

Steve shrugs and goes for the whiskey again. “Eyesight, hearing, it’s all just...more than it was before. What about you?”

“I have some enhanced physical ability. Reaction time, strength, speed. I heal quickly. Like a bullet wound overnight quickly.”

It seems a little sick that Steve’s relieved by that, but he is. At least Bucky’s safe.

“What happened to you?” They both startle, which is funny because Steve is one who said it. “The day we all got out, and after. The FBI couldn’t find you, I had some of my buddies from the army search every database available...You were a ghost.”

Bucky drains the rest of his glass and looks up finally, and Steve can tell he’s wrestling with something.

“Not all of us got out.”

“What?” Steve means to speak the word, but it comes out kind of strangled.

“I didn’t get out. Or I didn’t get away,” he self-corrects. “They had me incapacitated, took me to another location, above ground, but high, like thirtieth story or some shit...I broke out a month later. Made myself scarce.

Steve remembers having heard that there were a few additional arrests made a month or so after their escape. Nothing was said about any additional rescues. The thought that Bucky was still imprisoned for a whole month after everyone else was free is causing Steve physical pain so extreme he clutches a stitch in his side as he asks, “How’d you get out?”

Bucky stares at him, eyes hard, as he says, “Same way you did. And then some.”

Steve nods, jaw clenched so tightly his whole neck is starting to hurt and asks, “What then?”

For a moment, Bucky looks ashamed and Steve says, “I’m not judging you, Buck. Nobody deserves what happened to us. Whatever you did, whatever you had to do…” He shrugs, trying to get the wording right. “I know you’re a good person. It’s not gonna change the way I feel about you.” He hears the words and thinks about adding, ‘as a friend’, but it never comes out and he can’t bring himself to regret it. 

Bucky gives a little gasping breath. “I was recruited.”

“By?”

“The GRU?” He says it like a question and with a wince, like maybe Steve won’t know or maybe he’s just hoping. No such luck.

“The Russian Intelligence Agency?”

Bucky nods. “I was a sniper. For a few years.”

As they stand there, quiet and still in Bucky’s beautiful apartment, Steve watches a whole lifetime of emotion break free from behind that mask and roam hesitantly across Bucky’s features. Sadness, regret, curiosity, ruefulness, far too little joy. 

“And then you moved here?”

“I…” Bucky stammers for a second. He’s staring at Steve like he’s grown another head, probably because Steve didn’t ask about the whole GRU thing. Steve figures he’ll tell him when he’s ready. “Yeah. Ms. May ran the foster home I lived in when I was younger. I looked her up, she’d moved from New York to Chicago. I needed a...tether, so to speak, so I came out here. I was working half a dozen odd jobs, one of them was a bakery. I just...I cooked for the kids at the home back in New York, I was pretty good at it, one thing led to another, and the coffee shop just sort of happened. And it’s good. Relaxing. Different from before. What?” 

It’s surreal. Steve peels off his jacket and throws it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “You just...you never told me you were in a foster home. And I...” Steve has to start pacing in order to keep his mouth moving. “I looked for you everywhere, all over, for fucking _years_.You’ve been here. In Chicago. This whole time.” He doesn’t really notice how his voice is getting tighter, just that his body is starting to tense up and he can feel his heartbeat in the bruise on his arm. 

“You looked for me,” Bucky repeats, soft and awed.

“I-” he chokes then breathes, refusing to stop pacing, but making sure to keep speaking. “I didn’t think to look in Russia. I didn’t even...didn’t even know your real name,” he finishes with a bitter laugh. “James. Where did Bucky come from?” He stops moving, but his eyes are fixed on the floor.

“James _Buchanan_ Barnes.”

“Oh. Why were you so shitty to me when we met again?”

“Very smooth subject change.”

“It’s not. I’m curious.”

“I thought it might be you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I recognized your voice, Rogers. To be fair, I didn’t know your real name either.”

“Excuse me for not feeling bad.”

That startles a laugh out of Bucky. “Punk.”

“Jerk.”

Steve is shocked to find himself smiling, a hair’s breadth from giggling, and thinks it must be the adrenaline from their run. Or the whiskey.

Bucky is grinning back, wide mouth turned up at the corners, and it’s gorgeous and goofy all at the same time and Steve might be having a heart attack, but it’s hard to tell.

“Well,” Bucky says with a shrug. “Here I am. You found me. Disappointed?” Steve doesn’t feel like he knows Bucky very well yet (again), but he can hear the edge of caution, vulnerability in the question, despite the obvious effort to sound like he’s joking. 

“NO,” he replies forcefully. “No, James. I’m just happy you’re ok. You’re ok, right?”

It’s a rough laugh, but genuine, before Bucky says, “Yeah. I’m ok.” Steve hallucinates that Bucky’s eyes rest on his lips for a moment, but then he’s saying, “Damn, your arm looks bad.”

“It’s fine,” Steve mutters with a shrug.

“We should work together.”

“What?”

“Hungry?”

“WHAT?”

“Are. You. Hungry?”

“I guess…?”

“Great.” Bucky turns on his heel and starts digging through his fridge. “I said,” he mutters, pulling out a stack of food, “We should work together. If you’re going to keep superhero-ing around, that is.”

“That was you, wasn’t it? Getting the perps I was watching before I could get to them.”

“Only the really nasty ones.”

“Aw, Buck, you watchin’ out for me?” he teases, then realizes his mistake when Bucky flicks his eyes up, good natured but irritated. “Shit. Sorry. James.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s...it’s fine. I...it’s ok if you call me that.”

“What changed?” It’s too personal, too much, too soon, but he can’t help it. 

“I’m trying…” He stops and looks genuinely frustrated and Steve is suddenly worried.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed-”

“I’m trying to let you in,” he interrupts and Steve jerks in surprise then feels the smile start to spread at the same time he feels tears begin to burn. “Are you fuckin’ crying?”

Steve shrugs again, but doesn’t make much effort to stop the dampness collecting at the corners of his eyes. Bucky doesn’t really seem to mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for Steve using his body as bait for a job. Feels a little dubcon, though nothing happens. Just fyi.

After that night, wherein Bucky makes Steve fucking exquisite grilled cheese and they actually don’t sleep, parting ways with the dawn when Bucky has to go open the coffee shop and Steve has to shower before work, things get a lot better. 

Bucky swings by art classes more frequently, much to the students delight, both because they love him, and because they enjoy the way he sasses Steve. Steve makes sure to pretend he’s real irritated, but he still finds excuses to go into the coffee shop at least once a day, makes a crack about Bucky putting him out of pocket, though as Bucky has been giving him a “locked up together as teenagers” discount it’s not actually much of a problem. 

They do begin working together in the evenings. They start out working alternate nights until Steve figures out that Bucky is still watching over him on Steve’s nights, and of course Steve isn’t going to let Bucky go out alone. After that, they suck it up and go out into the gradually cooling Chicago nights together. 

They’re walking back to Bucky’s apartment. It is again so late it’s early, but Steve doesn’t mind. Being around Buck is like waking up after a deep sleep, achy and hazy and exquisitely aware.

“Can I crash here tonight?” he says without thinking. He’s never slept at Bucky’s apartment before, but they spend so much time there he’s kind of forgotten. “I’m wiped.”

Bucky glances up at him sharply, but he doesn’t look angry. “Yeah sure. I don’t have a...bed or anything, though.”

Steve waves his hand dismissively. “Blanket, floor. It’s fine.” His stomach yells at them both. “And maybe some food?” he says hopefully.

“Yeah, yeah, ya punk. I’ll make you something. I’m beginning to think you’re using me for my culinary skills.”

“What can I say? You’re a great cook. Then again, I live off of frozen veggies and granola bars, so I dunno if I’m qualified to speak on that.”

“Gross.” Bucky wrinkles his nose. It’s unfairly cute. Steve does not think about how he wants to kiss it. It occurs to him that Bucky might think he’s taking advantage of his hospitality and suddenly he’s nervous. What if he doesn’t want Steve over anymore? “You don’t really have to make me food, Buck. I can-”

“I like it,” he interrupts. “Cooking for you.”

“Oh.” Steve’s voice is soft.

By the time Bucky let’s them into the apartment they’re back to harassing each other. They shove and joke all the way to the fridge, where Bucky pulls out a beer and tosses it over saying, “Happy one month superhero-versary.” 

Steve’s surprised but pleased. He knew they’d been settling into a rhythm lately, but it didn’t feel like they’d been at it that long. He says as much then adds jokingly, “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and begins digging through the cupboards for ingredients saying, “Yeah, taking out bad guys instead of sleeping. Sounds great.” His voice is dry and Steve is surprised by the pang of hurt he feels at the words.

He shrugs. “Well. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

“Are you for real?” Bucky says incredulously, but he’s smiling, soft and shy and Steve has to take a few breaths before he can think clearly again.

Bucky makes spaghetti and garlic bread. It’s quick, takes less than thirty minutes, and Steve almost swoons out of his chair it’s so good. It makes Bucky blush and he looks younger like that, sweet and calm. Steve insists on doing the dishes, but when Bucky comes back out of the bathroom in a hoodie and boxers, Steve’s almost asleep in the warm, sudsy water. “Leave it, Rogers.”

He changes sleepily into the sweats that Bucky lends him then shuffles out to find a quilt folded neatly on the couch, but Steve pulls it to the ground and wraps it around himself like a burrito beneath one of the tall windows. He’s out in an instant.

\--

There had been a little girl. He’d seen her before, a different raid. She had blue eyes, like him. She was little and gangly and tanned almost coffee-colored, fierce and lovely. Steve remembers she’d smiled at him. Actually smiled, and Steve had almost wept.

He didn’t cry when the explosive detonated, taking off the bottom half of her body. It was a mistake, wrong time, wrong place. He didn’t cry again for a long time.

Which is why it didn’t make sense that his face is so wet, why his throat aches with tension, but then there is a shuffling, and he’s being shaken, a calm, deep voice saying his name over and over. “Steve. Stevie. Come on. You’re ok. Wake up, man. Steve.”

He takes a shuddering breath and then gasps awake. Bucky is crouched over him, rubbing a hand over his back, long smooth strokes, and Steve tries to match his breathing to it as he scrubs at his face. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m...fine. Bad dream.”

Bucky just nods then tilts himself off his knees and onto his ass so he can sit more comfortably while rubbing Steve’s back. He stares out the window above them and Steve is grateful for the moment of privacy. “Wanna talk about it?” Bucky asks.

It’s a surreal situation, removed from their day-to-day. The air is different here, the night, in Bucky’s apartment, dream laden and suspended from emotional accountability. At least that’s what it feels like, so Steve says, “There was a kid, when I was serving. She smiled at me in the street one day. Blue eyes. No one smiled at me, not like that. Leered or smirked or laughed or teased, but that little kid smile was the first honest thing I’d seen in over a year. I remember crying in our humvee, trying to hide it before I realized no one would even notice. And then an errant missile from our side blew her to bits in front of me and I stopped...existing. For a long while. Years. Just a body marching from one place to another, an animal driven by instinct.” 

He’s holding still, not wanting to break the spell of Bucky’s hand running smooth patterns over skin and fabric. Bucky’s looking down at him, mouth open, but he’s silent. Open, closed, open, and then he finally spits out, “I know that feeling.” The words are fast and a little loud, but when he speaks again it’s calmer, more measured. “I remember the third guy I shot. The first two I didn’t even...it didn’t register what I was doing. It was new, and a job, but this guy...he had this fuckin’ cowlick...a kid at the home I grew up in had the exact same thing, a little widow’s peak and these spiky little bangs and I shot him, the target, but in the crosshairs I saw Bailey from the May House in Brooklyn and had a panic attack on the roof. Barely got out. I had to stop thinking, stop feeling, or die. And I’m not dead, so you know the rest.” He’s back to looking out the window. “It’s not your fault, Stevie. You did what you had to.” 

Bucky’s hand stills as Steve squeezes his knee. “You know the same goes for you, right?” Steve murmurs.

“Hardly,” Bucky scoffs, and Steve rolls himself up to sit next to Bucky. 

“No, the shit that happened to us...you gotta forgive yourself for whatever that did to you. You’re more than your experiences, Buck.” 

He expects an argument but instead he gets a pleading look from Bucky, as if to say, ‘really’?

“How do you know?” he chokes.

Because I know you, Steve wants to say. Because you have such a good heart hidden behind all that pain and sarcasm, you did when I met you, you still do. Because you’re an amazing person even with all your bad experiences and I love you for it. 

Obviously, he can’t say any of that, so he goes with, “I just do. I’m not wrong,” he adds at Bucky’s skeptical eye roll. “You are. I could elaborate, but I think it’d just embarrass you.” And me, he thinks. 

“Well. Thanks,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his neck. He stirs, pulling Steve to his feet by tugging the blanket and then shoving him in the direction of his own quilt. “Come on.” 

Steve’s not sure what’s happening. Bucky flops down, but Steve stays standing, and quirks a brow. Bucky just says, “Better to be close, in case I need to wake you up again.” It’s great excuse, and Steve takes it, drops onto the edge of the quilt and throws the one he’s holding over the both of them. The warmth of Bucky’s body sends him back to sleep quickly. He thinks he hears Bucky say, “Sweet dreams, Stevie,” but his voice is impossibly sweet and gentle, so it must be a dream. At least this is a nice one.

\--

That night changes something. They go from amiable to friendly. Bucky speaks his mind more often. He introduces Steve as “an old friend” to one of the kids who works at the coffee shop and Steve smiles so hard for the rest of the day that Sam and more than one of the art students ask him if he’s high. 

The fact that he’s admitted to loving Bucky, even just to himself, is nice too, speaking a clear truth after such a length of lying. It feels like breathing air after drinking water. 

Then things change again, and Steve’s less sure of how he feels about this one.

They’re out, trailing one of the guys from the case that started them working together, the mugger outside the club. Steve had brought it up a week or so ago and Bucky admitted he’d been mulling over it too, how there was only supposed to be one mugger and they ended up fighting four guys, and what the one man had said: “Just want a little something from them.” It sounded like there might be more to it. 

The weather is cooling off and their breath becomes fog as it leaves them where they’re crouched on a ledge over the alley near where Steve was attacked. Steve’s leg is starting to twitch a little, but Bucky is a statue so he clenches his glutes and bites his lip. 

Steve is usually pretty good at focusing on these nights, partially because they’re doing important work, and partially because he’s trying to keep Bucky safe, but every once in awhile he gets distracted. He can’t really be blamed.

Bucky’s been looking even more beautiful lately. Steve’s pretty sure it’s just because they spend so much time together and he’s getting used him, but the dark circles under his eyes seem to be fading, and there’s always a faint hint of rose at the bridge of his cheekbones now. The thing Steve stares at most though, are his eyes. They’re gray, and piercing, and Steve can’t get enough of them even though he’s constantly fearful that they’ll see something he’s trying desperately to hide. In the evening light they look almost blue, and it’s then, as Steve tries to pretend he’s not drinking in the appearance of his beautiful friend, that he notices it, the gentle puffs of steam in the air from behind a chimney. 

Breath.

Steve nudges Bucky, and gives a subtle nod in the direction of the intruder, and Bucky catches on instantly. Neither of them miss the tiny red laser dot, though somehow they don’t notice it’s not aiming for them. Not by a long shot. They bolt.

Shots are fired, but Steve and Bucky are long gone, hopping roofs, swinging from the bottom of the train trestle, trying to get to a better vantage point. Steve can hear the intruder gaining on them, quick footfalls, and Bucky spots a good place to hide behind, a fuse box on top of a warehouse and they drop behind it, steady and waiting. Steve himself is strictly hand to hand, but Bucky has a gun, and though Steve knows he prefers a knife, Steve hears him ready the firearm. 

Steve hears the soft click of Bucky turning off the safety and then the intruder skids to a stop not thirty feet from them. He obviously knows where they are, but he makes no move towards them or to defend himself. In fact, he steps back, just a little, so the nearby streetlight will shine on his face, and Steve stills Bucky’s weapon with a hand on his arm before standing and saying incredulously, “Nick?”

\--

“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have just _called_.”

“And said what, Steve? ‘Hey, I hear you have abilities you never disclosed to the American government and are using them as part of a secret crime fighting team and I’d like to hire you to work, for an organization so secret it technically doesn’t exist, outside of the confines of the law just in case I have to kill you?’”

Even Bucky, who can play it cooler than cool, looks a little shocked and Steve nods, relenting. “Yeah. Ok. Coffee?”

“Please.”

They’re at Steve’s. He didn’t want to make Bucky uncomfortable by bringing a stranger into what was clearly a haven, and more selfishly, he didn’t want to invite an outsider into something that Steve considers “theirs”. So they’re in Steve’s tiny apartment, and Bucky’s walking around touching things, and Nick is sitting at the kitchen table looking intimidating but docile in a long black coat. One of his eyes is a little cloudy, and it wasn’t when Steve had first met him, but he knows better than to ask. 

In sweats now, Steve pours the coffee and flops at the table, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest at the sight of Bucky in Steve’s clothes, sitting knees to chest where he’s finally perched at the kitchen table.

“How do you know Steve?” Buck asks, and it sounds polite enough, but Steve can hear an undercurrent of tension. He likes it. It means Bucky cares.

“He was the lead witness in a case I worked years ago.”

“What case?”

“The people who experimented on him. He put them away. It was tough on him, but he did well.”

Steve feels weird about this conversation being had in front of him, so as he rubs the back of his neck he says, “It was the right thing to do.” 

Nick nods. “It most certainly was.” 

“Wh-who were they?” Buck asks, and Steve knows how affected he is by the tremor in his usually unshakeable tone.

Steve and Nick exchange glances before Nick sighs and takes pity.

“They did, at one point, work for the American government, but they were banned years before you met them. After ‘Nam there was a project, strictly off the books, by a scientist who’d been an army medic during the war. He became obsessed with creating better soldiers, men who could fight and win, every time. I guess it worked.”

“What happened to him?” Bucky whispers.

“Killed. In prison.” The tone of voice suggests it was not an accident, but Nick changes the subject when he turns to Bucky. “You. You were the other man, the one Steve wouldn’t shut up about.” Steve blushes, but Bucky nods curtly, a half-smile twitching the corner of his mouth before glancing at Steve, who tries to convey in a smile that Bucky’s secret is safe with him, that they’re fine, but then Nick says, “We never figured out who you were. From your time locked away. Just knew you as the sniper,” and Bucky freezes. 

Nick notices. “I’m CIA, Barnes. I know you lived in May’s House, then you disappeared after a brawl, then turned up in Russia. Don’t worry. You still have your secrets. We couldn’t get much on you.”

“How did you know about the fight?” Bucky asks, voice curiously soft. 

“Kid named Connor. Guess he’s not a kid anymore. Told us some men tried to take him and you fought them off. Never saw you again. Round the time Steve disappeared. We were collecting intelligence on your assassination work after the job in Brazil a few years back. Can’t believe I missed it.” His voice trails off and sounds actually...sorry.

Bucky stands so quickly his hips slam into the table and it skids a few feet, before stalking out onto the balcony. He leaves the door cracked and Steve’s not sure if it’s an invitation or simply keeping an ear out, but either way Steve says, “Excuse me a minute,” and follows Bucky into the cold. 

Bucky’s leaning on the railing, and though his face is expressionless, his body is rigid and his breathing is faster than usual. Steve has nothing to offer, so he just leans next to him, pressing the warmth of his body into Bucky’s side. 

“Connor was only twelve. I had to help.” It sounds like a plea. 

“Of course you did,” Steve murmurs.

“Better me than him.” 

The complicated feelings surrounding that comment are too fucking much for Steve to even think about so he says, “You can trust Nick. He’s a good man. I know he’s a little rough around the edges, but I think he means what he says.Saved my life during the trial. And after. And I think...if you wanted to…” Steve flounders for a minute before continuing, “If we work for him, we could probably get a lot more done. And catch some bigger fish.”

Bucky nods, and it’s clear that he’s still far away. “Do you remember that night, maybe two months after I came in, we stayed up all night playing cards with little pieces of paper we’d ferreted away from the lab?”

Steve smiles. “Of course.”

“I loved that. I had so much fun I barely even cared about where we were. Just upset that I couldn’t see your face.”

“You weren’t missing much,” Steve says lightly, but Bucky turns to him sternly. 

“This Steve Rogers might be a sexy super soldier, but that Steve Rogers saved my life. Don’t knock ‘im.”

Steve’s mouth just hangs open. The hell is he supposed to say to that? 

Did Bucky just say he saved his life? Did Bucky just call him _sexy_?

Bucky bites his lip, suddenly twitchy, and turns away saying, “Alright. If you trust Nick, I’ll trust him. Let’s see what he has to say,” and he turns away, leaving Steve suddenly shivering with his absence.

\--

It’s pretty straightforward. Nick gives them a secure laptop, where he sends files of the cases he wants them on. Sometimes it’s information, sometimes it’s to detain the perp until they can be arrested. Every once in awhile the order is to kill. Steve and Bucky take turns with that. Neither of them get any pleasure from it, but they trust Nick’s judgement.

They become more efficient, but the missions are also increasingly dangerous. Which is how Steve finds himself bleeding on the tile of Bucky’s bathroom, his best friend digging a bullet from his shoulder.

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky murmurs.

The job was kind of fucked to begin with. They went to the club where the girls were getting mugged, the case they were working the night Fury found them, only this time with better intel. They were looking for a hard drive in the owner’s office; Nick seemed to think it would be key to cracking the case. 

The club was different than their usual operational locations. Noisier, for one, and with far more bystanders that could either be innocent or dirty, with little way of telling which. Steve and Bucky had been in plainclothes. 

“Really?” Bucky had asked as they were about to leave.

“What?” Steve had replied, checking himself on the mirror above the hallway shelf. Did he have something in his teeth? No. Just him, a few days of scruff, a blue, longsleeve tee, and dark wash jeans. He looked alright, if a little casual. 

“You’re just…” Bucky had blushed. “Uh...you look good.”

Steve, in an uncharacteristic moment of confidence had laughed, winked, and said to Bucky, who was clad in unfairly tight jeans and and white button up (with a white glove on that left hand), “Jeez Barnes, don’t sound so surprised.”

The club had been packed when they got there around eleven. They had a good idea of the layout based on the blueprint Nick had sent, but Bucky headed immediately to the bar to get an idea of the traffic flow, and Steve had headed to the bathrooms to check the exits.

As Steve passed Bucky on his return trip to the bar, he was grabbed by the wrist and yanked onto the dancefloor. 

“Buck?” There was no question his voice cracked but he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention as Bucky slid a leg between his own and wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulders. There were two beers in his left hand, and he passed one to Steve before he leaned in and said, “Red shirt, your nine o’clock.” 

Somehow, probably magic, Steve managed to not only find the guy Steve was talking about, but also do some analysis of the situation. The perp was packing, for sure, at least one gun at the back of his waistband, and something in his boot, blade or firearm, Steve couldn’t tell yet. Two men flanking him. Easy.

Bucky’s grip moved him to the beat, keeping up the appearance of a couple dancing at a club and not assassins scanning their next target. 

“Behind me,” Steve had murmured, mouth tilted down but eyes still up, “Labeled exits are good, kitchen exit is best, two windows on the second floor over dumpsters, west end and twenty feet in from the south exterior wall.” 

Bucky had shivered and cocked his head a little in the direction of Steve’s mouth, who realized he’d been talking into Bucky’s neck. One of the henchman glanced up at him, and he wound an arm around Bucky’s waist, turning them one-eighty. They’d been pressed tightly together, but neither had moved away. Bucky’s body was firm and warm beneath his hands, and Steve could feel the muscles in his friend’s back beneath his palms, shifting smoothly as he rolled his hips and Steve was just starting to get stressed out about getting hard while dancing with his strictly platonic work partner when Bucky had said, “Shit. I gotta get a better eyeline.” And as suddenly as he’d dragged Steve onto the floor, he was gone.

Steve had chosen to panic later, and now that Bucky was moving through the room, downed the beer and headed back to the bar, which was where, in a stroke of blinding luck, their target, a man named Edison Black (Steve thinks he could’ve come up with a better stage name), suddenly appeared beside him and said, “Hey, handsome,” and Steve, who never had game in his entire life, had smiled smoothly and replied, “Hello.” 

The guys leaned in and asked, “Can I get you a drink?”

“Gin and tonic. Please,” Steve added, teasing with a raise of his brows. He wondered if the guy had made him or if he was just hitting on him because, well, Steve is hot. He found out later that it was the second.

Black ordered and Steve asked about his night. “So far, so good,” Black had said. “Patrons are orderly, drink sales are good. And it’s early yet.”

“Oh, do you work here?” Steve asked as he casually tilted his shoulder towards the guy. He briefly wished all criminal masterminds smelled this good. 

“Sweetheart, I own this place.” 

Steve allowed genuine surprise to overtake him before he turned his body completely towards the other man and slid onto a stool. “Really?”

“Really. Impressed?”

Steve had shrugged but he was actually blushing so he laughed and said, “Yeah, ok.” He let Edison bump their knees together before saying, “That’s pretty cool actually. What’s it like?” He had mental fingers crossed that the guy would drop some pertinent information. Nick wanted a the drive hidden somewhere in Black’s office, but Steve hadn’t been able to figure out for the life of him how they were going to get back there when the guy held out a hand. “I’m Edison.”

“Grant,” Steve said, hoping the middle name would be harder to track and easier to lie about.

“Mmmm, Grant, what brings you here?” He didn’t let go of Steve’s hand, and Steve doesn’t push it. 

“Just looking for a good time,” he responded coyly, and looked up through his lashes, subtly but with purpose.

“Well I think I can help with that, sweetheart,” Edison said, and Steve had shivered at the proximity of Edison’s mouth to his ear. “You wanna dance?” Steve could see the way he was eyeing him, and suddenly he had a plan.

“Alright,” Steve said casually, but he made sure to bump his hip into Edison’s as they moved to the dance floor.

Edison had dragged them fairly close to the DJ booth, and the sheer volume of the music alone set Steve’s teeth on edge but when he was pulled forward by his hips, he focused, and took advantage of the opportunity to run his hands down the other man’s back and check for the previously spotted firearm. Clean. So only the one on his ankle. Better. 

He turned, back to Edison’s chest, and realized he was actually a little taller than Steve, and was a strangely nice feeling to have someone envelope him. 

Steve pressed his ass down and back as he took Edison’s hands and ran them over his stomach on the way to his hips. They moved to the heavy bass for a few minutes, and Steve finally broke down and rolled his hips hard, down into the other man’s lap. He heard the other man hiss a little as he did and he smiled in success until Edison reached up and tugged his hair, and he let out a little whine. “That’s it, baby,” Edison had said.

A harsh exhale got his brain back online, and when he looked up, Bucky was sitting at the bar, staring at them. Steve tried to give a small nod, an ‘I’ve got this’, and Bucky had nodded tightly in response, but Steve could tell he was grinding his jaw. Steve wondered who’d been dumb enough to piss off someone as dangerous as Bucky, but then he turned to face Edison and press his lips and a little teeth into the man’s neck. He growled.

“Tease,” he’d said roughly.

“Let’s go somewhere more private,” Steve had said, trying to sound desperate. “And I won’t have to tease any more.” 

“My office,” Edison said, miraculously, and Steve mouthed to Bucky, _Three minutes_. He wouldn’t need more than that. 

They’d stumbled to the back of the bar and Edison pushed through the swinging doors, and unlocked the office. He relocked the door as they entered, but Steve turned them, slammed him backwards into the door, and used the distraction to unlock the deadbolt again. He kissed the other man hard, and as covers went, it wasn’t the most unpleasant. Edison was gorgeous but also strong, and clearly quick, and Steve didn’t want to risk trying to take him out until he had back up. Edison shoved him back, grinning, and Steve manhandled him to the desk and spun him so he was bent over. He whined and pushed back into Steve, who patted himself on the back a little for being able to read that Black was a bottom despite his aggressive approach. 

Takes one to know one. 

Which might explain what happened next. The second Bucky had kicked in the door, Steve had dropped Edison unconscious and they had immediately begun digging through the guy’s desk. 

Bucky said, “I thought you might be a top.” His voice was harsh and strained, and Steve attributed it to the heat of the moment. He’d been too worked up to stop himself from saying, “I’m not.” 

Bucky made this terrible little noise in the back of his throat and turned to Steve so sharply that had Steve thought he might get punched in the face, but instead, Bucky just fisted the hem of Steve’s shirt and leaned in, and for a moment Steve thought he might get a second, but much more welcome, kiss in as many minutes, when Bucky froze. “Safe.”

“Huh?” Steve whispered, but Bucky was already dodging around him to run an decryption scan on the wall safe behind them. He got it open, took the tech they needed as well as a stack of cash, (“Groceries, Steve”), and they were almost out the door when one of the guards stormed in, shot at Bucky, who was shoving things in his pockets, and Steve didn’t have time to move him, just block it, two to the shoulder, and now here they are, on the bathroom floor.

“I’m not an idiot,” Steve says. “I’m efficient.”

“You could’ve been killed,” Bucky chides, but Steve can hear the worry in his voice, and anger, so he wraps his hand around Bucky’s wrist for a moment and says, “Buck. I’m fine.” 

Bucky swallows hard and nods. He finishes digging the last bullet out, and sanitizes the fuck out of Steve’s shoulder, a little rougher than is necessary, but then dresses the wounds with a gentleness that borders on reverence and Steve finds it difficult to breathe. 

Buck looks exhausted which is understandable, but strange. Between the two of them, Steve is the one more likely to be proactive about getting a little shut eye, if only for health’s sake, but Bucky, with all his avoidance of sleep, almost never looks tired. In fact, extreme fatigue usually results in mania, not this rough, serious, shell.

“You ok?” Steve murmurs.

In the kitchen Bucky sets water to boil, before flopping down at the counter.

“Buck?”

“I’m fucking fine!” he bites out. “You’re the one with the holes in your shoulder.” 

Steve is too tired to decipher this bullshit, so he just shrugs, hoping he can get the tiniest bit drunk and go to sleep. He’s not hung up on the bullet wounds, but the memory of dancing with Bucky, his back, his hips, the little hitch in his breath when Steve’s breath brushed his ear...that was fucking with him real nicely. And now hung up on the way Bucky’s avoiding his eyes. 

“Ok. Ok.” Steve nods kind of numbly and wanders back to the bathroom to collect his blood-soaked clothes. He figures he can get drunk on his own property if Bucky is so loathe to have him here. The shirt he was wearing is trashed, but the undershirt isn’t bad so he tugs it over his head and meanders back into the main room. He feels kind of shell shocked, wonders if it’s blood loss that’s making him so loopy, decides it doesn’t really matter. What he _needs_ after a night of using his body (confusingly) to lure and distract a target, is to sit in Bucky’s apartment and eat ramen and watch weird TV on his busted up laptop. But for some reason Bucky’s feeling like being alone, and Steve is tired of feeling simultaneously turned on and scraped out. 

“I’ll uh...I’ll see you tomorrow Buck,” Steve murmurs as he shuffles to the door. “Get some sleep.” 

“You’re leaving?” He sounds a little angry, but even more concerned. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“‘M not tryin’ to overstay my welcome.”

“No! Steve, I-”

A hand wraps around Steve’s wrist and pulls him back towards the kitchen, shoves him onto one of the stools at the counter. “I’m sorry. I...shit, just stay, ok?”

The moment stretches out as Steve stares at him, and for once Buck stares right back, eyes open a little wider than usual, sincere and a little scared and Steve feels his heart break a little with how much he wants this man. How much he’s always wanted this man. “Buck…” he says softly when he notices the look on Bucky’s face, names it as fondness and hope, but Bucky shakes his head. “Steve, I’m a wreck, man.” His voice sounds so defeated.

“So am I!” Steve insists. “Of course I’m a mess, would I be joining you in being some sort of damn nighttime vigilante if I weren’t? I have nightmares and panic attacks and - what are you doing?”

But Bucky is far gone, pulling off the omnipresent cotton glove and throwing it to the floor before ripping his shirt over his head, and suddenly, brutally Steve understands.

His left arm isn’t an arm at all, and instead a series metal plates fitting together into a sleek prosthetic. The scarring appears in smatters as it sweeps right across his torso, varying in age, size and shape and color. Shrapnel scars, some of them, and bullet wounds, a few deep lacerations, purple, silver, rose. It’s awful and beautiful and the same time and Steve doesn’t look past the cut of Bucky’s hipbones, the ridges of his abs, the strong sweep of his shoulders...And Bucky’s face is terrible, vulnerable and exhausted and afraid for the first time in Steve’s knowledge of him, so approaches slowly.

“Can I touch you?”

Bucky’s jaw works for a minute before he gives up and nods tersely. Steve watches his face as he takes him by the shoulders and slowly runs his hands down Bucky’s arms, both of them, hands sure and strong, then back up, moving smoothly until the tension in Bucky’s body releases in the form of a gasp, and as soon as the breath leaves him, Steve steps forward and embraces him.

He makes sure Bucky feels him, feels him touching the metal and scar tissue and then Bucky’s arm wraps around him, the one that’s still skin and bone.

“Both of ‘em, Buck,” Steve murmurs into the crook of his neck, and then a cool and hesitant hand settles on Steve’s lower back and they both relax into the embrace. 

“Now you know,” Bucky whispers.

“Thank you for showing me.” They haven’t let go.

“It’s hard for some people to see.” 

“Doesn’t change anything between us.” That’s not quite true. Steve’s even more in love now, but this isn’t the time or place. 

“Why not?” 

“What?” 

“I’m used goods, Rogers. Why don’t you care?”

Steve shoves away from him but only to take Bucky’s face between his hands. “Goddamn it Bucky! You saved my life a million time over, and besides-” he stops mid sentence, suddenly aware of the care he has to take here, “I like you. I like spending time with you and talking to you and fighting with you. You make me feel…” Vulnerable. Scared. Awed. Overjoyed. “Like maybe I could come home.”

It’s a weird thing to say, but Steve knows immediately that Bucky understands, if only because his face twitches like maybe he’s going to sneeze or yawn and then his eyes get shiny. He scrubs at the as he turns away, back to the kettle, and says, “Yeah. You’re not so bad yourself.” Steve waits with him, the long moment where they both struggle to regain control of themselves, and then Buck says, “I’m fuckin’ starving. Ramen?”

By some miracle, Steve manages to bite back the sob. “Yeah, Buck. Sounds perfect.”

\--

“Drugs. It’s always drugs,” Nick says. 

Steve snorts at the phrasing and Bucky frowns. “Edison Black?”

“Yeah. You did good getting that drive from him. The cops apprehended the muggers outside of his club, local gang trying to make some extra money, which is slowing the spread, but the fact remains, it’s still getting out.”

“What is it. Coke? Smack?” 

Nick shakes his head. “Something new. Black’s invention. He calls it Crush. Idiot,” he finishes under his breath. 

They’re at Steve’s again, and Steve has had one too many cups of coffee to sit still and he’s been pacing behind Nick for a few minutes.  
“I still don’t see how this is our problem,” Bucky says. Steve blinks at him and he shrugs. “What? We deal with murderers, rapists, people with assault on their records. I’m not on that “All drugs are bad bandwagon”. Why’s this worth our time?”

“It’s killing people,” Nick says simply, and Steve stops walking. “It’s a dangerous and delicate cocktail designed to get people high and hooked, but also obedient. Not only are people putting themselves in dangerous situations through the power of suggestion, but overdose is incredibly likely and easy. We’ve had four deaths in the last week.”

“Then why are we just hearing about it?” Steve asks incredulously.

“We just found Black’s lab. I want you guys on the raid.”

“When.” Bucky and Steve speak at the same time then startle. They both look expectantly at Nick, who sighs. “Soon. I’ve got a guy working on bugging Black’s car and apartment, and until I can give you better intel, I’m not comfortable sending you in.”

“Soon though.” They can’t just let this go, Steve thinks.

“Yes. Soon.”

\--

It’s early still, and Steve has a class in a few hours, but there’s that itch under his skin so he has no other option. He’s changed into a tee he doesn’t care if he ruins, opened every window, turned on every light, and leaned the canvas up against the back wall. It’s huge, taller than him, but he knows what he needs, knows what’s trying to escape his fingertips, and there is nothing to do but obey. 

Brushes, water, turpentine, paint, all scatter in cluttered orbit around him as he sketches loosely the idea that had crept into his head while he was sleeping a few nights ago. Over the course of a few days it’s solidified and taken on life of it’s own, begging to draw breath. Gentle scratching of pencil against canvas soothes him as he works, sinking him slowly into that distant, separate space he inhabits while creating, far away and pure. 

The painting begins. It’s easier for Steve because he has almost endless supplies at his disposal, so he barely pauses to clean brushes, just grabs another and another. Sweep, blot, smooth lines, short, choppy strokes, he’s lost, stretching, reaching. He doesn’t notice his stomach growling. He doesn’t notice the sun creeping across the floor. He doesn’t notice the beautiful man slip into the room and take a seat in the corner and set two cups of coffee on the floor. Not for a long time. Not until-

“You know you have a class in twenty minutes, right? Oh, hey James.” Sam smiles at them both, and Steve inhales shakily. It always takes him a minute to come out of that headspace. 

“Thanks, Sam,” he murmurs. When Sam disappears back out into the store, Steve turns to Bucky. “How long have you been sitting there?”

Bucky shrugs. “Not long.” He must have just gotten there, his cheeks look a little pink from the cold. “Brought you coffee,” he says, offering the cup up nonchalantly, and Steve crosses to him, so grateful for caffeine that he doesn’t even care it’s gone tepid. 

“Thank you,” he says wholeheartedly, and flops down next to him to examine the painting from across the room.

It’s coming along, more than bare bones by now, and Steve’s pleased that it’s moving as quickly as it is. 

“Will you tell me about it?” Bucky’s voice is strangely soft, and Steve glances over at him, curious and too outside of himself still to censor his reactions very much. 

“I…” he sighs. This stuff is always so difficult to articulate but then he realizes, this is Bucky, the man who gets him without trying, without permission, without context, and maybe he’ll understand where no one else will. “Embodiment of feeling. Feeling...free? Safe? Alive?”

He observes the boy on the canvas, standing tall on the beach, arms extended out and up, gratitude and openness. You can’t see his face, but the set of his shoulders reads joy and not pleading. “The feeling’s been in me a lot recently, and then this just...wandered into my mind a few days ago.” He pauses, trying to decide whether or not to continue. How crazy he might sound. Fuck it. “I get this itch under my skin and just have to get it out. Gotta put it down, let it go, you know?”

“You’re talented,” Bucky says tightly, and Steve just shrugs. “It’s a gift I’ve chosen to cultivate.” When he glances over, Bucky looks rueful, wistful. “What?”

“Wish I had something like that.” Self-deprecation reads clear, but Steve doesn’t understand. 

“Buck. Who you _are_ is a work of art.”

Bucky scoffs, but there’s something like hope in his eyes, and he nervously angles his body towards Steve, opening himself up, and Steve is coming out of his head just in time to wonder if maybe-”

“Oh hey Mr. Barnes! Morning Mr. Rogers!” Kyla says enthusiastically, Keith and Chris trailing behind her chatting amiably and the moment shatters. 

Steve thinks he’ll paint that next, a moment hung like gossamer thread and then ripped apart.


	5. Chapter 5

“Mr. Rogers! So good to see you!” May wraps her arms around him tightly.

“Please. Call me Steve. For the millionth time,” he jokes. She slaps his arm, but fondly, and ushers him into the house. 

Bucky had invited him to the house for dinner in front of the class, which promptly exploded with excitement and insisted he join them. After some eye-rolling he agreed, tried to invite Sam, who declined due to new-girlfriend-related-activities, then spent the rest of the afternoon trying to rationalize that it was not at all a date. At all. 

Several of the kids greet him excitedly, but Steve finds himself out back, looking for Bucky.

“Hey,” he says, hands stuffed in his pocket. 

Bucky glances up from his phone. “Steve.” He sounds so fucking relieved that Steve is immediately concerned. 

“What’s wrong?”

Bucky bristles a little. “Why do you think something’s wrong?” But Steve just stares at him until he cracks. “Ok. Christ. Just...Keith hasn’t come home yet.” 

Immediate worry flutters into Steve’s stomach. “Is he answering his phone?”

“He texted me an hour ago, said he just needed to get away, that he’d be back tomorrow. I called Nick to see...but...this isn’t…”

“He’s been drifting away.”

“You’ve noticed, too.” It’s not a question. Steve watches Bucky flop down on the step of the back porch, then joins him, bumping their shoulders together.

“He just seems distant.”

“I’m worried about him,” Bucky admits, and Steve knows how much it costs him to say that aloud, and reaches over to squeeze his forearm. 

“He’s lucky to have you around.”

“What if he’s hurt?”

“What if he’s fine?”

“Mr. Rogers? Mr. Barnes? Dinner is ready.” Elena’s sweet voice startles them both, but Steve manages to smile warmly.

“Thanks, Elena.”

They end up wedged next to each other at the end of a row of tables far too small for the amount of bodies crammed around it, but Steve can’t think of a place he’d rather be then pressed against Bucky’s side, laughing at and the kids from his class, eating warm food on a cold night. Like something a family might do. 

“Wow. Have some more potatoes,” Steve mumbles as Bucky glops a third heaping spoonful onto his plate. 

“I will thanks,” he says and makes eye contact with Steve as he slaps another helping down onto the table. 

“You know, there are other people at this table that enjoy mashed potatoes,” Steve gripes, holding out a hand for the bowl. 

“Really? Who might that be? _Oh_ , Chris, right,” And he hands the potatoes past Steve to Chris who’s giggling quietly. 

“Oh that’s how it is, huh?” Steve says to Chris, who shrugs with a faux innocences that reeks of Bucky’s influence. 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Rogers,” Kyla says, handing over another bowl of potatoes that’s floating around. “We’ve all given our allegiances, and Mr. Barnes has chosen wrong one too many times.” She gives him a glare that’s tempered by the way she’s trying desperately not to smile.

“Hey!” Bucky protests. “I didn’t realize who I was defending when-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kyla laughs. “Stuff it.”

She launches into the explanation, and Steve chuckles along, not noticing until much later that Bucky keeps stealing glances up at him. He wipes his mouth on his napkin, hoping there’s nothing on his face, but it doesn’t seem to stop the staring, so he just gives up trying to figure it out, and enjoys the rest of dinner. 

When the meal is over, the entire household splits off into tasks. Dishes are washed, supplies are shelved, garbage is taken out, rooms are picked up, and only then does Ms. May open tubs of chocolate chip cookies and gallons of milk along the tables. 

Steve and Bucky are on dish duty, and it’s actually kind of pleasant. The water is warm and they continue to bump into each other, maybe as a carryover from their proximity during dinner. Whatever it is, it’s making Steve so happy it hurts his chest and he’s trying not to smile to obnoxiously. It doesn’t work.

“What’re you grinnin’ about, punk?”

Steve’s getting looser with his replies these days. Probably his brain trying desperately to get him to tell his best friend he’s been in love with him for over a decade. Which he’s not going to do. But he still says, “Just happy. Jerk. Jeez, who gives people shit for smiling?”

“Happy about what?” Bucky probes, and for a moment, Steve wonders if he’s catching on, and how he feels about that. 

“I dunno. This. Today. The kids. Dinner. You.” Not even trying for subtle, are you, Steve thinks to himself, but Bucky just grins and bumps into Steve with his hips again. “Christ you’re a sap.”

It’s just...nice. Domestic in a way Steve had thought so impossible he’d given up even dreaming about it years ago. Which is why he shouldn’t have been surprised when it all goes to shit.

Bucky’s phone rings, and he wipes his hands on his hands before answering, but doesn’t move away, so Steve hears the conversation. “Nick. You find him?”

“Barnes. Norwegian American Hospital on Fransisco. He’s stable but...hurry anyway.”

\--

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Steve agrees. 

“Fuck!” Bucky punches the doorframe with his flesh hand and Steve grabs his wrist before he can do it again. The skin has already split over the knuckles.

“This is not your fault Bucky.”

“But-”

“If anything, it’s mine,” says a voice from behind them, and they both spin around in the doorway of Keith’s room to see Fury standing there.

“Nick. What?”

“It was Edison’s drug. It told you before, didn’t I? Easy overdose.”

Bucky’s eyes widen in horror as he turns back to scan over Keith’s sleeping form. “You mean...if we’d gone...if we’d just...he wouldn’t-”

“Can’t think like that Bucky,” Steve says quietly.

“I wasn’t going to let you go in without all possible information.”

“But you’ll get the intel.” Bucky’s voice is ice. “Soon. I’m gonna make this guy wish he’d never been born.

“We.”

“Huh?”

“We’ll make him wish he was never born,” Steve says, and though he’s still looking at Keith, he slides a hand onto Bucky’s lower back, the only comfort he can think to offer. 

Fury nods in his peripheral vision. “It’s my top priority. I’m sorry this ended up so close to home.”

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge him, but Steve nods. “Thank you. Let us know, ok?” He’s not trying to be dismissive, but he’s pretty sure Bucky’s going to go off on Nick if he doesn’t clear out soon, and Nick seems to agree. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow,” he says, and then he’s gone.

They’ve been at the hospital for almost 4 hours, just watching Keith breathe. He’s stable, in remarkably good condition, but he hasn’t woken up. “Visiting hours are over,” a young nurse says a few minutes later and Steve can see that Bucky’s about to snap at her, so he steps in front of him and says, “Alright, thank you,” and takes Bucky by the arm.

“Come on, Buck, let’s go home.”

He can tell Bucky wants to fight about it, but instead he just stands over Keith for another moment before turning away. When he passes into the hallway, Steve bends over and brushes a strand off Keith’s forehead before leaning down and kissing his brow. “Get better Keith. We’re pullin’ for you man.” He feels his heart break a little. For Keith to have gone out and experimented like this...he must be going through some shit. “I’m sorry we didn’t notice,” Steve continues brokenly, feeling guilt weigh heavy on his shoulders, “But we’re here. We love you.”

Then he straightens up and follows Bucky down the hall toward the elevator. 

They took Steve’s car, and they drive back to Bucky’s in silence for most of the ride until Bucky says coolly, “You’re always in control.”

“What?” Steve’s too tired to pretend like he understands. 

“No matter what happens. You’re so calm. Kid OD’s, no big deal.” There’s accusation in his voice. Steve puts the car in park and gets out into the cold night without a word. He’s not sure what Bucky wants him to say. 

They’re halfway up the stairs when Bucky says, “I mean, do you even care?”

“Of course I care!” Steve shouts, then realizes they’re still in the hallway and waits until Bucky unlocks the front door and they’re safely inside before finishing. “I love that kid. But I can’t do anything for him yet, so what’s the point in getting worked up?”

“Like me, you mean.”

Steve shakes his head, refusing to be baited, “You have the right to feel how you want to feel.”

“Stop with the therapist bullshit!”

“What do you want me to say?” he yells. “That I’m terrified? That I feel like absolute shit? That the guilt in my chest is so heavy I can’t breathe, I can’t think? That I _know_ beyond the shadow of a doubt that I’ll be having nightmares tonight, and not just of Keith in a hospital bed, but my mom, and you, and anyone else I’ve ever loved that’s died right out from under me? That I’ve spent my entire life trying so desperately to protect the people I love and I _fail_ time and time again and I feel like a worthless piece of shit for that?” He bites off the words and turns his back, breathing hard.

Silence hangs heavy over them, and Bucky doesn’t apologize, just chokes out Steve’s name, squeezes his shoulder, and they stand there vibrating with misplaced nervous energy.

“Come on,” Steve says finally, taking Bucky by the hand. “We’ll be no good to anyone sleep deprived.”

“Wait.” This time he turns and they face each other, and Steve waits while Bucky struggles with something in his throat for too many seconds ‘til he says, “Never mind.”

Steve’s almost too tired to wonder what he needed to say, but as long as they’re together, they’ll be fine. They strip down to boxers, and Bucky pulls on a pair of gym shorts, but Steve doesn’t bother. He flops down and without second guessing or considering, wraps his arms tightly around Bucky’s waist and pulls him in so Steve’s chest is pressed against his friends back. He worries absently if this is too much, but then Bucky sighs, an exhalation of stress, and hugs one of Steve’s arms to his chest. Distantly, Steve acknowledges that this is not the behavior of friends, but he dismisses the thought and buries his face in Bucky’s neck. 

He feels Bucky wriggle closer just an instant before he slips into sleep. 

\--

Nick keeps his word.

They both wake up disturbingly early, Steve curled into Bucky’s side, and they blink sleepily at each other before getting up, but neither jerks away or makes an excuse and Steve _swears_ he felt Bucky kiss the top of his head at some point, but he was probably dreaming. Spooning did not a relationship make.

They go for a run, and Steve spends the whole ten miles wondering how he can be so nervous and so happy about so many things at the same time without combusting, and then most of breakfast pretty sure he’s going to combust.

But then Nick calls. “Information has been sent to your laptop. You can go in as early as tonight, but…” He sounds hesitant, which Nick almost never does. “Keep it emotionless, ok? I know you’re worried about the kid but...Black is a professional. Don’t fuck with him. Just take him down.”

They intend to.

They can’t move out until nightfall, so they spend the day preparing. Bucky prints out the blueprints of the lab and they spend a few hours planning attack and escape. They’ll hit around 2 am, during the largest internal shift change for the guards, that way when they disable the perimeter, they’ll have the place to themselves. They have it on good authority that Black will be there, but he’s been tagged with a gps device so they’ll be able to track him well enough regardless. 

They spend a few hours maintaining and mending armor and weaponry. There’s something therapeutic about cleaning guns, and Steve actually finds himself enjoying the process, though he thinks he’d probably enjoy a trip to the dentist if Bucky was with him, and then he gets lost in thought about how weird that is, and then how things seem to be changing between then, and then he has to talk himself down from that train of thought because he’s getting ahead of himself and that’s not fair to anyone. Besides, Steve is intimately familiar with how damaging hope can be when it turns out to be unfounded. 

He ends up sitting at the counter while Bucky cooks them dinner, and sketching him. He doesn’t really need to look at the man in front of him, he’s got him memorized, but he does, checking his accuracy, just in case...well. Just in case. 

“That doesn’t look a thing like me.” Bucky’s voice has a teasing lilt to it, and Steve finds himself blushing. 

“Yeah, well, it’s a hobby.”

“Drawing is a hobby? Or I am?”

“Can’t it be both?” It’s blatant flirting right now, but Steve can’t bring himself to go further. Coward, he scolds himself.

Bucky hums, noncommittal. Maybe he agrees.

The rest of the night flies by. They review the blueprints, revisit exit strategies, spend an hour on Skype with Nick hashing out the plan. There’s nothing more to be done, and around ten p.m. they find a building with a good vantage point and observe. Tonight, Steve’s legs hold up just fine. He thinks of Keith lying in that hospital bed. He thinks of the women who’ve been mugged. He thinks of the kids, and Sam, and Bucky, and knows the world will be a better place without this guy. They’ve taken out more dangerous threats, but this one feels personal.

Sixty two seconds after Bucky shoots out all twelve cameras on the front of the building and forty-five seconds away from the first guard, Bucky says softly, “Steve, if we don’t make it out of here-” and Steve freezes up. No. He can’t hear this now. When he’d said it, twelve years ago, it was because he’d needed to tell Bucky he was in love with him, and if that was what Bucky was about to say, he couldn’t hear it. Not yet. If something went wrong in there…

“Shut the fuck up, Barnes. I’ll see you on the other side.” He smiles at Bucky, but doesn’t receive one in return. In fact, Bucky frowns and says, “Nice try, asshole,” then grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him in.

The kiss is brief but in that time Steve discovers that Bucky’s lips are just as soft as he thought, that he tastes like perfection, that he’s an incredible kisser, and that Steve has been missing a part of himself his entire life, until right now, and he gasps. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“Don’t fucking die, ok?” Bucky demands.

“Don’t fucking leave, alright?” Steve returns breathlessly.

Bucky grins, totally inappropriate for the task at hand, perfect nonetheless and says, “Let’s get this motherfucker.”

The way they disable all sixteen highly trained armed guards out front is beautiful to watch. The way they enter through the front door using guns only to disable cameras and security sensors, then dropping another thirty men by hand without killing a single one is graceful.

The way the break down the doors of the lab, avoid the firing of automated weaponry from the ceiling and drag Black as well as almost fifty unconscious bodies outside before leveling the building to the ground is fucking art.

Nick meets them out front. 

“I fail to see why you had to blow it up,” he says lightly.

Bucky appears to be searching for an answer but Steve says simply, “We didn’t have to. But damn did it feel good.”

A shocked, proud smile works its way across Bucky’s face, but Nick just laughs. “Barnes has been a good influences on you.”

“I think so.”

“Take a few days off, yeah? Let this all blow over.”

“Yessir.”

“Good. Now get the fuck outta here, you’ve got another four minutes and then this’ll be crawling with police and FBI.”

Steve side-eyes the lawn littered with ziptied bodies, all still breathing, and says, “What’ll you tell ‘em?”

Nick shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “You’re welcome?”

\--

It takes no time at all. They sneak into the hospital to check on Keith, who’s doing much better according to the chart at the foot of his bed, they make their way home. 

Steve’s been feeling light all evening, invincible, but when the door swings shut he’s suddenly nervous. 

Bucky, on the other hand tugs his jacket off then goes to the sink and runs cold water into cupped hands to drink from. When he turns back his mouth is shining, and Steve bites his own lip. What is he supposed to say? He’s not trying to force Bucky into anything, he’s not trying to trap him. Hell, a few months ago, Bucky wanted nothing to do with him. 

Turning away, Steve shucks his outerwear starts unloading his weaponry onto the table. 

“Steve.”

“Buck, you know, if you can’t do this or whatever right now, I understand, I just really need for us to stay friends.”

“Steve.” 

He pops the cartridge out of the handgun with ease and wipes it down. 

“And I know shit hasn’t always run smooth between us, probably because I’m about as smooth as sandpaper-”

“Steve.” Steve sees Bucky’s feet coming around the edge of table, but he’s not ready to be let down easy or put off or whatever is about to happen so he keeps talking.

“But if you don’t want anything to change between us, I mean I get - mmf!” 

Bucky yanks him in for a kiss, and Steve wraps his arms tightly around Bucky’s waist and clutches at the fabric of his shirt, desperate to keep a good hold on him. For a moment, Steve’s embarrassed. It seems like he’s about to pass out and Bucky’s just fine, cool as a cucumber, but when Steve bites Buck’s lip, he lets out this groan deep in his chest, and Steve knows he’s not the only one who’s affected.

“Bucky,” Steve gasps as they break apart. “Are you sure?”

He couldn’t stand it if Bucky changed his mind. Bucky’s his person. He knows that. 

The expression could only be described as incredulous. “Yeah, punk, I’m sure.”

“It’s just...Buck...I…” Might as well spit it out, Steve figures. If it’s going to crash and burn, better sooner than later. “I love you, and if this isn’t...I just couldn’t stand it if you disappeared again.”

“Stevie,” Bucky whispers, suddenly sincere beyond recognition, and he grabs Steve by the collar and pulls him in. “I’ve loved you since I was a kid.”

“Me too. I tried to tell you that day, you know.”

Bucky nods. “I know.”

“You wouldn’t let me.”

“I knew I’d see you again. Didn’t want our first ‘I love you’ to be in some madman’s basement dungeon.”

Steve shakes his head, exasperated and affectionate. “So you’re actually a hopeless romantic,” he teases, then with more seriousness says, “Was it worth the wait?” He doesn’t realize he sounds nervous until he’s finished the sentence, but Bucky just slides his palms up to cup Steve’s face and presses another kiss to his lips, again, and another, before simply saying, “Come to bed.”

\--

“Happy Birthday to youuuuuu!” Two dozen children screeching at the top of their lungs should not be as endearing as it is, Steve thinks, but maybe he’s swayed by the fact that Bucky is a second from tearing up and he looks handsome and healthy and ridiculous in his black shirt and silly birthday hat that one of the kids made him. 

The scuffle for cake is terrifying and awe-inspiring, but eventually there’s a room full of sugar-pacified young people, and Elena is telling Bucky a story, and though Buck shoots him a pleading look, Steve sneaks off to the kitchen for some coffee. 

“Hey handsome,” he hears, and turns to see Bucky following, pulling the hat off and leaning in to kiss him.

“Did you get any cake?” 

“I did, in fact. No thanks to you.”

Steve laughs and tightens his arms around Bucky. “Sorry I wasn’t there to be your knight in shining armor.”

As the words leave his mouth his smile fades and he realizes it’s a more sincere apology than he’d thought, though this was neither the time nor the place. He thinks he does a fairly good job of hiding it, but Bucky sees, of course, and frowns. 

“Steve.” 

“Sorry, shit, I wasn’t...I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Steve rubs his brow. “Let it go, Buck. It’s your birthday. Be happy.”

“I am.” It’s genuine, so much so that Bucky looks surprised by his own declaration and every ounce of self-loathing Steve’s ever felt gets torn out from under his feet.

“You are?”

“I am,” Bucky repeats, laughing now. “I really am. So fucking happy. Goddamn Stevie, never thought I’d be able to say that.”

“I’m glad,” Steve whispers.

“You’re good for me,” Bucky replies simply, and Steve nods, just barely able to believe it. They’re good for each other. 

“Ewww, gross,” Kyla says teasingly of the men wrapped in each other’s arms as she enters the kitchen. “Bucky, it’s time to open your presents.” 

Coffee in hand, the two men follow the tiny girl back into the dining room, where Steve watches Bucky excitedly rip the paper off a number of adorable homemade gifts. Pictures, carvings, cookies, a teddy bear...there’re two garbage bags full of wrapping paper and one of gifts resting at Bucky’s feet.

When he speaks, Steve hears the catch in Buck’s voice, but he’s sure no one else does. “Thanks so much guys, I can’t even tell you how much I appreciate this. This is...it’s...this was great. Thank you.” He’s repeating himself, and a little flustered and Steve swoops in.

“It’s getting close to these old guys’ bedtime, so Bucky and I are gonna gave to call it a night. Thanks so much for the wonderful party.” The kids moan and complain and Ms. May smiles knowingly. Steve takes Bucky’s elbow and leads him through the dance of hugs and goodbyes and hauls the bag of gifts out to the car while Buck finishes up. He wants to fuck his boyfriend halfway into next week and then actually go to bed, but his phone rings and he knows there’s going to be a kink in his plans. 

“Hey. Nick. What’s up?

\--

“You,” Steve growls into Bucky’s neck as he shoves him into the wall of their apartment, “Need to be more careful.”

“I’m -ah!- fine!” he pants back.

“Barely!” He slams Buck’s hips back and pins him there, body caging his partners in a display of dominance they both know is because Steve is worried, and rightfully so. The mission had lasted only a few hours, a pick up and a drop off, but the perp was sneakier than most and the job almost went sideways. Bucky put a stop to it, almost getting shot in the gut in the process. 

Here, now, Bucky runs his fingers up Steve’s arm, fists into his hair and holds him there, firm. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I had to make sure...but it was a risk, and I’m sorry.

“If I lost you…” His throat closes up, but he’s grateful. The noise he’d been about to make would’ve been beyond embarrassing. 

There it is. For once he’s communicating the actual sentiments crossing his mind. If he lost Bucky again...well. It was better not to think about it. 

But based on the look on Bucky’s face, he knows exactly how well Steve would handle it. Which is to say that he wouldn’t. “Steve…” he breathes. “Baby, it’s ok. I’m fine.”

Steve’s not sure where to go from here, so he just nods. It’s not like they can guarantee one another’s safety. They’re fucking vigilantes for christ sake, and he’s not trying to trap Bucky into anything. Their relationship is still pretty new, at least in this iteration; What would he even ask?

It’s just hard, remembering how fucking bad it got before, when he knew Bucky existed but didn’t want him, or worse, the darkest hours abroad in the desert, or in a new city, a new life, a new world and he still couldn’t get Bucky’s voice out of his dreams. 

_But Bucky’s not like that_ Steve reflects as he plants a kiss on Buck’s cheek, delicately enough to avoid suspicion, before turning back into the room and beginning to strip off his outerwear. Bucky’s always got his emotions in check as far as the past is concerned. He’s an incredible boyfriend, adoring and attentive, but sometimes Steve feels like the way Buck is now has nothing to do with their history, scared little boys locked in a freezing basement, and Steve can’t seem to extricate himself from that. Sometimes he’s still a scared little boy. Scared of losing the most precious thing. He knows what it feels like to have that torn away. He won’t survive it again. 

He’s stripped down to his boxer-briefs when he looks up to realize that Bucky is still standing by the door, shoulders hunched and hands shoved into his pockets. “Buck?”

Bucky doesn’t look up, just starts speaking.

“When they took you away that day...They told me they killed you. It’s why I took the job abroad, why I never made an effort to find you...Initially I thought the very worst days would be those first few, after the FBI raid, after I’d been transferred to the new location. They kept me sedated because when I was awake I’d scream until I puked. Your name. But when I realized they were going to use me as a test subject I stopped screaming. Started working out. Knew I’d never be able to live with myself if I let your killers get away. 

And then I ran. Ran from them, from myself, from the memory of you...but even in the tundra or in the desert, when my mind wandered, it was always you there, Stevie. I thought I’d have to live the rest of my days knowing I’d lost the love of my life and the most incredible man I’d ever known, so I gave up. Let go. What was I supposed to do?”

Bucky never talks about this. Steve’s got goosebumps running across his body.

“But when I came back...I dunno, something about seeing New York again, I heard your voice, how you’d always yell at me to take care of myself even though you were the one with your lungs falling out your ass, and I figured it’s not what you would’ve wanted for me. So I tried to live. ‘S why I was so shitty when we met. You reminded me of someone I thought I lost, and then the reality that you’d been out there the whole time and I...I was just...Anyway.”

He finally looks up, eyes shiny, and Steve can barely breathe but he still watches, rapt, as Buck brushes his hair out of his eyes and said, “I couldn’t lose you again either, Stevie. I fucking refuse to. I won’t go anywhere you can’t follow.”

Steve lets the noise out now, the one that had gotten stuck in his throat, the gasping sob and Bucky’s in his arms. He holds on so tightly that Steve can barely breathe, but he doesn’t care, especially when he feels dampness slide down his neck, Bucky’s tears, Bucky who never cries. 

They’re not alone, Steve realizes. Not now, never really were. He whispers “I love you”s into Bucky’s cheek, his hair, his clavicle, over and over like he’s trying to imprint the words on his partner’s skin.

They hold on for so long that Bucky stops crying, Steve stops panicking, and eventually, they can both breathe normally again, which is when Bucky says, “What’s that?”

The giant canvas leaning on the wall is covered with a tarp and Steve grins against Bucky’s temple where he’s pressed a kiss. “Birthday present.”

Buck’s eyes light up. “Can I open it?”

“Go ahead.”

Stripping out of jacket and boots as he goes, Bucky crosses to the canvas and gently tugs of the plastic. It falls to the floor and Steve wonders if Bucky is going to start crying again, but he doesn’t. He laughs instead, joyful. 

“Steve. Oh god, Stevie it’s perfect.”

It is. Steve knows he’s not the most gifted painter of all time, but this one turned out just right, exactly as he’d hoped. It’s more abstract that he usually goes for, but in this case it works. Two ethereal figures, all movement and color, curve into each other from opposite ends of the canvas, bending their heads to kiss the other upside down. They don’t have specific features or even genders, but it’s them, obviously, past, present, future.

“Can we hang it here?” Buck murmurs, gesturing to the wall. 

“Of course, dumbass,” Steve teases, covering the emotion in his voice with laughter. 

Bucky doesn’t take the bait, but instead turns abruptly and takes Steve’s face in his hands and kisses him fiercely. “Love you so fucking much, you goddamn asshole.”

Steve’s pretty sure he says something, but then Bucky’s dragging him to the quilt pile on the floor in the corner and pushing him down, and he’s pretty far gone after that. 

\--

He doesn’t count hours anymore, or even days. They don’t have an anniversary. What date would they use? They’ve come back from the dead a hundred times. They have today, together. It’s more than before. It’s more than enough. 

Sometimes Steve thinks he might count kisses instead, but every time Bucky’s mouth touches him, he just can’t quite seem to remember. It’s for the best. Can’t measure a life worth living after all. You just have to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be short and kept getting away from me, but I like it, and I love them. Next chapter is just sex and feelings, NSFW, so if you want that, forge ahead!


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEY! This epilogue is just sex! So you know! It is EXPLICIT. If you want that, GO FORTH. If you don't, BACK AWAY SLOWLY.

Well, Steve’s having a heart attack, so that’s nice. 

Bucky’s been out of town for a few days, visiting some of the kids (adults now) that he’d lived with at May House in Brooklyn. Steve had asked if he wanted company, but Bucky said he needed to do this on his own. It was his own journey.

Steve was proud as hell, but he’d missed him terribly. Two weeks is an awfully long time to go without the guy you’ve been living with for two years (christ, two years already?), so when he’d arrived at the Grind, where Steve and Sam were fueling up, in rolled shirtsleeves, a vest, and black jeans, there were very few things on Steve’s mind, and none of them were PG.

“Hey babe,” Bucky says, leaning down to kiss Steve who can tell by the sparkle in his eyes that he’s completely aware of what his outfit is doing to Steve. 

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is a little strangled, and Sam groans. 

“Oh my god, gross.”

Steve legitimately does not hear him, but Bucky laughs. “Don’t worry Sam. We won’t fuck on any surfaces you have to touch.”

“That is categorically untrue and you know it,” Sam responds, and Steve hears that one.

“Are we really having this conversation?” He whispers furiously, turning bright red. 

“Nope,” says Sam. “I, for one, do not want to be present for whatever total inappropriateness is about to go down. I’ll see you guys later.”

Bucky watches him go before saying, “Nice guy, that Sam.”

“Are you torturing me on purpose?” Steve grinds out. 

Bucky just grins. “Would I do that?” and he turns and walks to the counter to check in with the cashier.

“Fucker,” Steve mutters under his breath.

Bucky genuinely does need to check on his staff, two weeks is the longest he’s ever been away. The manager is great but young, and was nervous to be left in charge for a fortnight. As far as Steve can tell he’s done a great job and has told him so a number of times, but Bucky is nothing if not thorough, so Steve sits back in his chair, folds his arms, and tries to breathe his way into patience.  
And then, in a move that is so deliberate Steve can barely handle it, Bucky leans over to rest his forearms on the counter. It probably looks innocent to the casual observer, but Steve, a student of that body, can tell that Bucky’s doing it on purpose. The vest he’s wearing accents the way he’s arching his back, and after the second time he runs his fingers through his freshly cut hair, Steve’s clenching his fingers to keep himself under control. 

“Ridiculous.”

They talk for what feels like forever, Bucky and the cashier, and Steve spends a few minutes thinking about something else, anything but the perfect ass in front of him. He does not think about the broad slope of shoulders underneath the straps of the vest, he does not think about hair the perfect length for pulling. He thinks about baseball, and not the way those jeans hug Buck’s thighs, outlining his quads in a way that makes Steve want to bite them. 

Bucky finally finishes up, and by that time Steve is doing the crossword from a discarded newspaper on a nearby table, writing in the letters so vehemently that the pen has torn through the paper in places.

“You’re a menace,” Steve says without looking up.

“But you love me,” Buck teases, and Steve feels a smile creep across his face without his permission. 

“I do,” he responds quietly, and Bucky’s warm palm cups his face and raises it so that Steve’s looking directly into his eyes.

“Alright, soldier." There's so much fondness in Bucky's voice that Steve has to blink against the prickling behind his eyelids. "Let’s go home.”

They grab their coats, Steve climbs up behind Bucky on his motorcycle and they speed off. Despite being so fucking turned on he can hardly breathe, Steve reflects on how he’s always felt there was something so intimate about this, riding behind Bucky. Part of it was the necessary embrace, sure, but to press up against each other like this, chest to back, in public...it isn’t something that happens in any other context.

Bowing his head, Steve buries his face between Bucky’s shoulder blades and inhales deeply. Buck smells incredible. Like soap and linen and pine. 

_Alright, soldier. Let’s go home.”_

It’s more than Steve could’ve ever hoped for, this life with Bucky. Two years, and they’ve had their hard times but he knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that Bucky his person, his partner. His future as well as his past.

Bucky damn near breaks the hinges off the door to their apartment but Steve can’t find it in him to complain. They’re on each other in a heartbeat, Bucky’s hands roaming over Steve’s body while Steve buries his fingers in Buck’s hair and holds him tight to kiss him more deeply. By the time they get their shoes off, Steve’s making little whimpering noises into Bucky’s mouth at the end of every breath, and Bucky’s flushed all the way down his chest. Steve knows this because he’s working open the vest and tie and shirt and tugging them all down and away so he can get his mouth on Bucky’s skin. 

He’s tan from shirtless workouts around their neighborhood. The first time he’d joined Steve on a run without a shirt, Steve had been torn between weeping and taking him home and fucking him through the mattress. The fact that Buck was comfortable enough in his own skin to be seen without a shirt was proof of how far he’d come, and Steve was the only one who knew the distance traveled. 

Under the tan his body is wrapped in muscle that ripples beneath his skin when he moves, and his blue eyes are shining at Steve, daring him to say something sappy. He looks so damn beautiful that Steve feels his knees weaken so he goes with the movement and drops to a kneel from which he begins to kiss and bite his way across Bucky’s stomach.

Bucky runs gentle fingers over Steve’s jaw and grins when he pops the buttons on Buck’s pants. “A little eager there aren’t we?”

“Can you blame me?” Steve asks, nuzzling into the fabric-clad crease of his thigh. 

Bucky’s breath hitches. “No,” he whispers, and then he pounces, pushing Steve over and tackling him to the floor. Steve’s pants are tugged down and off in the span of a moment, and then his shirt yanked over his head, and he finds himself pinned to the floor where his boyfriend is straddling his hips, and they’re both down to boxers. 

“You move fast,” Steve teases, and Bucky grins but says with deeper seriousness than his expression belies, “I wasted enough time without you.”

“Buck,” Steve whispers, but then they’re kissing again, rough and hot, and Steve can’t help the way his hips twitch up to meet Bucky’s. 

“Stevie,” he gasps, a sweet nickname he’d started using shortly after they’d started dating. 

“Fuck me,” Steve murmurs into his neck, and Bucky pulls back to look at him. 

“What?”

“Fuck me. Please. Need to feel you.”

Bucky usually bottoms, but on occasion, when Steve feels like he can really let his guard down, or when he really needs the comfort, they switch roles. It’s infrequent, sex with Bucky is already overwhelming, and feeling him fill up the places in his body and his heart that were empty before...sometimes it’s too much.

But today he needs it. Needs to know that Buck is here, that they’re fine, that this is real, and Bucky knows without explanation, nods, drags Steve to his feet. They stumble to the pile of quilts and Bucky lays Steve down, strips him the rest of the way, and lubes up his fingers before he even begins. 

He starts by kissing every inch of Steve’s skin, paying special attention to the places that make him gasp: the crook of his knees, the curve of his neck, his hipbones, before curling over him and pressing his knees back for better access. He slips one finger in without warning or pretense and Steve arches into the burn. “Oh my god.”

“That’s it, baby. Relax.” 

Steve obeys and takes what Bucky gives him, Bucky, who kneels over him with reverence like worship, naked affection on his face, more vulnerable than Steve usually sees him, and he knows he’s not the only one feeling overwhelmed. Steve pulls him in by the neck, presses their mouths together and Bucky kisses him sweetly while adding another finger. 

“Thought about you a lot while I was gone,” he murmurs.

“Really?” he chokes out. Steve’s expecting a litany of body parts Buck wanted his mouth on, or “activites” he’d missed during their time apart. As usual, Bucky’s response is completely unexpected.

“Missed your voice,” he whispers. “And your hands. On me, but in general, too, the way you hold a pencil or a knife. Powerful and gentle.”

“Buck,” his voice is barely audible, but what Steve can hear of it sounds like a sob.

“Missed your smell.” He buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck and inhales deeply, then speaks into the skin there. “Missed your warmth in our bed. Missed your body behind me on our way to work. Missed the way you touch my back when we meet someone new, like you’re reminding me you’ll kick their ass if I need.”

Steve huffs a laugh but Bucky’s already felt the tears, sliding down Steve’s cheek and tickling his boyfriend’s ear. “Don’t cry baby.”

“Good cry,” he croaks, and then groans as Bucky slips into him slowly, almost too much, and Steve squirms down begging for more with his body when his mouth can’t  
keep up.

“Alright,” Bucky murmurs. “I got you. You’re alright,” and he rolls his hips forward, abandoning the gentle rocking and easing Steve into a good pounding, though his hands keep drifting softly across Steve’s skin, setting it on fire.

“Oh FUCK.”

Like coming home. It’s always been like that for Steve, before he could even name it, that Bucky was home. He feels full and vulnerable and safe, and is grateful when he begins to feel the build at the base of his spine because it takes his mind off the much more terrifying mental sensations. The sweetness on Bucky’s face is shifting to heat, and Steve likes it just as much. He clenches down to get a reaction, and it works. Bucky cries out and falls forward, and Steve uses the opportunity to flip them.

Bucky shouts, slams his eyes shut, and his hands shoot out to grasp Steve’s hips. The metal one is a little tight, but Steve wants the pressure, wants the bruises and he fucks into the ache for as long as he can stand. Eventually he sucks Bucky’s fingers into his mouth, enjoying the reaction before pulling off to lick messily across the warmth of his palm, then wraps Bucky’s hand around his cock and sits back a little, tucking his feet beneath him.

“What-are you doing?” Buck gasps, and Steve smiles with more wickedness than such a sweet face should be capable of and shrugs. “This,” and he rises up a little then slides back down, fucking himself backward onto Bucky’s cock then forward into his fist. He uses both arms anchored behind him to roll his body, conscious and proud of the way the muscle ripples across his torso and thighs. It’s his body after all. He rides Bucky mercilessly, aware that he’s losing control faster than usual, and unable to restrain himself.

“Oh my god,” Bucky whispers, then again, a little louder, a little higher. “Oh my god, Steve, I’m not gonna last like this.”

“Me-ah!-neither,” Steve groans, and he’s telling the truth. It’s getting to him, the way Bucky’s metal palm slides across his stomach, the way he’s filled up, the way his boyfriend’s face is fierce, wild, beautiful, and as he starts to clench and tremble, Bucky jerks his body upright so they’re chest to chest, crushes Steve to him in an embrace, and as he comes Buck sinks his teeth into the meat of Steve’s shoulder like he’s holding on for dear life.

The sharp pinch combined with the sound Bucky makes sends Steve right over the edge, and he lets out a gasping sob before slumping into Bucky who collapses backwards, arms still wrapped tightly around him.

Maybe he passes out, maybe he floats away of in a sea of endorphins, but when he comes back to himself, Bucky is pressing shivery kisses to what feels like the teeth marks he left in the slope between Steve’s neck and shoulder.

“Sorry baby, I got a little carried away. You’re gonna have bruise for a day or two.”

Steve shakes his head. “Wish it'd stay for longer.”

Bucky hisses. “You like me marking you up?”

“I’m yours Buck. Everyone should know.” 

“As if you weren’t telling everyone anyway?”

“Shut up.” If Steve weren’t already completely red, he would’ve blushed. 

“I like it,” Bucky whispers, so soft Steve would’ve missed it if he weren’t nuzzled into his boyfriend’s chest. “Never belonged before, to a family, to a group, in my own body...now I’m yours.”

Steve picks up his head so he can look Buck in the eye. “You know, I hear there’s this weird ceremony for people who like each other as much as we do.”

Bucky’s eyes are widening, so Steve talks fast, hoping to get it all out before one of them freaks. “They have a big-ass party and wear suits and give each other rings...that way people could know we belong to each other without me embarrassing you or walking around for a week looking like I just got mauled by the world’s smallest tiger.”  
He ends up talking to Bucky’s chest. He’s obviously thought about this before, but this was not the plan he thought he’d go with. They haven’t really talked about it, and  
Bucky is still skittish about some surprising things. Suddenly Steve realizes what a terrible idea this could be and he’s about to panic properly when Bucky slides his arms up Steve’s arms and then cups his face in his palms.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” he says with sweet gentleness. “Did you just ask me to marry you while I’m still literally balls deep in your ass?”

It’s the absolute last thing he’s expecting, and they both burst out into hysterics. “I didn’t technically ask,” he gasps out between giggles and then buries his face back into Bucky’s neck, egged on in his laughter by the way their convulsing bodies are shaking one another. 

Eventually, body heat and the comfort of the embrace calms them down, and they’re quiet for so long Steve’s eyes start to get heavy when Bucky says, “That’s too bad.”

“Hmm?” Steve murmurs, nosing behind his ear. He smells so fucking good it's distracting.

“Too bad. That you weren’t asking. I’d obviously say yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there a better way to post this epilogue so that people who want explicit can find it and the people that don't can avoid it easier? Let me know if you know.


End file.
